The Return of Baby Face Morales
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: A sequel to episode 25. Baby Face Morales is back, and he wants revenge: on both Micky and on his traitorous second-in-command Tony.
1. Moving

**The Monkees  
>The Return of Baby Face Morales<br>By Lucky_Ladybug**

**Notes: Hooray! We have a Monkees category again! The characters are not mine and the story is! I envision the first season Monkee characters and consider them to be the ideal image of what the show was about, therefore, Micky is intelligent and has straight hair, though this takes place after the second season episodes. (Anyway, he couldn't be mistaken for Baby Face from the episode **_**Alias Micky Dolenz **_**if he had curly hair!) And when it comes to a couple of season 2 episodes where he and the others were more out-of-character than most, such as **_**The Monkey's Paw**_**, I'm not even sure those episodes have happened in my headcanon. Hence, I have changed a bit of dialogue I had concerning that particular episode and left it as an in-joke. Also, the story is written to take place as if The Monkees lived in modern days instead of in the sixties, because I felt like it. I consider it the same as **_**Nancy Drew**_** and **_**Hardy Boys**_** books taking place in whatever era they've been written. I do not believe that small mentions of cellular phones and video tapes detract from the story or from the meaning of The Monkees' wonderful show. I try to keep them and the story in character, and that is the most important thing.**

**Chapter One**

It was a generally quiet day at the Monkees' pad. Mike was writing a new song for them to perform at a concert the following night. Davy was getting ready for a date with his latest girl. Micky was practicing on the drums. And Peter had gone for a walk, which abruptly came to a close as he ran through the front door and nearly knocked down Davy in the process.

Davy stumbled back. "Hey Peter, watch where you're going!" he cried.

"Oh, Davy, I'm sorry!" Peter apologized, reaching to help steady the British Monkee.

"That's alright, Peter," Davy said, "but what's going on?"

"Yeah," Micky echoed. "You're not usually so uptight, man."

Mike nodded in agreement.

Peter looked around at his confused friends and bandmates. "I just found out something big!" he declared. "The Evanses are moving!"

Linda and Henry Evans were a young couple who lived just around the corner from the Monkees. They were all friends and often saw each other at neighborhood beach parties and other local events in the community. The news of their impending departure came as a shock to Peter, as he knew it would as well to the others.

Davy blinked in surprise. "You must be joking," he responded. "They've been living here for a couple of years now. I thought Linda said that Henry's company was gonna let him stay on at the local branch for a while."

"That's what I heard too," Micky said with a frown.

Mike shook his head, looking up from his guitar. "Oh well, you know how those kinda companies are," he said in displeasure. "They're always changing their rules about something or another." He leaned back. "When are they leaving?"

"I think it's going to be pretty soon," Peter said slowly. "Linda said that they have to be in Detroit by next week. I talked to her just now." He sighed, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "She was really upset about it. She said that she didn't want them to have to go." And he felt the same. Not having them around would make things feel so empty.

"That does seem pretty sudden," Mike remarked, "even if it's because of the company bureaucrats changing their minds." But then again, they all knew what such people were like. There was most likely no reason to be surprised.

"Oh! Linda did say something else," Peter smiled now, pleased by what he was about to relate. "She told me how grateful she is to have had our friendship while they lived here, and I offered to help her and Henry move. I know they have a lot of stuff, so I thought that they could use all the help they could get." He looked around at the others hopefully. "You'll all help too, won't you, fellas?"

"Sure," Micky replied, hopping down from the bandstand and going into the normal part of the living room to sit by Mr. Schneider. "They've always been good friends to us."

"It's the least we can do for them," Mike agreed.

"How soon do they want us?" Davy asked. Although he was certainly willing to help he hoped that the good deed would not cut in on his date.

"As soon as we can come," Peter answered. "She said maybe this evening, after dinner." With that he turned on the television and settled down to watch.

Almost immediately he leaped up again, his eyes wide with surprise and shock at finding something already occupying the chair. "What's this?" he burst out in disbelief, turning to stare at the confused array of tangled and broken wires and intricate metal parts.

Swiftly Micky came to retrieve the conglomeration. "Sorry, Pete," he apologized. "Since the telephone's been acting up lately, I took it apart to see if I could find the problem." All of the Monkees were aware of the drummer's fascination with attempting to discover what made various inventions tick. They were quite used to it, although every now and then his interest would result in some slight and odd inconvenience.

Now Peter blinked at the phone. "It doesn't look fixed," he remarked.

"It isn't," Mike was quick to interject.

"Not yet," Micky put in with a slight pout.

"Hey fellas, be quiet!" Davy hissed then. "They're talking about some mobster who broke out of jail!" He leaned forward on the back of the chair, studying the television screen with intensity.

Of course, it was highly possible that he was mostly interested in watching the lovely female news anchor. He simply could not seem to help himself; every pretty face made his heart flutter anew. His friends were often exasperated because of that, and they often tried to convince him not to pursue his infatuations, but their persuasions never worked. He had to doubt that he would actually settle down someday and get married, as it would be a nightmare with him crushing on every girl he met. But he was perfectly fine with that.

"A mobster?" The other three Monkees echoed Davy's announcement as they also turned to look. When the newswoman began to speak, their expressions changed to disbelief and horror.

"We have just received this newsflash that Baby Face Morales, notorious for being one of the most cruel and cold-hearted killers in America, has escaped from prison again," came the grave intonation as a picture of the gangster flashed across the screen. "The first time this happened, the police were assisted in his re-capture by Micky Dolenz, a young rock musician who strikingly resembles Morales. Now that this highly dangerous mobster is free once more, people such as Mr. Dolenz had best watch out."

Davy was gawking at the picture as it faded from the screen. "He looks just like you, Micky!" he cried in astonishment. He had been told by the others about the experience with Baby Face, but it was still nothing compared to actually seeing for himself who the man looked like. The resemblance was so strong that it disturbed him.

"Don't I know it," Micky muttered unhappily, giving the television set a dark look. More than once his resemblance to the murderer had caused confusion and calamity, and he was not looking forward to the prospect of it happening again. But of course, knowing the trouble that they got into, it was likely that it would.

"Aren't you worried he'll come after you, Micky?" Peter exclaimed, staring at his friend with wide eyes. "I mean, you did try to make him think that you were his cousin, and then you pretended to be him!"

"Yeah," Mike nodded. "It's okay to admit it if you're scared." He studied Micky, his own eyes narrowed. Knowing him, he was probably terrified at the possibility of Baby Face coming after him but he indeed would not say that it was the case.

"Me, scared?" Micky retorted now. "Pshaw! After all, he's only one of the most cruel and cold-hearted killers in America. Why should I be scared?"

His shaking hands betrayed him. He tightly gripped the disassembled telephone in an attempt to quell the unconscious motion. Baby Face had once nearly choked him to death, and that had only been when Micky had accidentally punched him while pretending to be an idolizing cousin who wanted to learn how to be just like the mobster. He had not realized then that Micky was working for the police in an attempt to capture the entire gang by impersonating Baby Face. What would Baby Face do now that he did realize?

Davy blinked at Micky and shook his head. Micky was not fooling anyone, least of all him. But he sighed, trying to relax and recover from the shock of seeing Baby Face's mug shots.

"Oh well, I'm sure he won't come after you, Mick," he said. "He's probably got other things to do, like . . . get a new gang and commit some kinda jewel robbery. The old gang turned against him, right? There's probably nothing to worry about."

He stood up, heading for the door. "Well, I'll be back later to help with the move," he assured the others as he left for his date.

Mike observed his departure. "He's right," he said firmly. "About Baby Face, I mean."

Micky managed a weak grin. "Yeah, I'm sure," he replied, even though he was not at all sure. "Well . . . I'm gonna go . . . fix the phone." He held it up for emphasis as he headed for the stairs, making his retreat.

Once Micky was in his room, Peter turned worriedly to Mike. "What do you really think, Mike?" he asked. He was certain that his friend and their leader had not been telling his true feelings on the matter.

Mike sighed, leaning back in the chair. "I think he's doomed," he answered. He was not at all convinced that Baby Face would leave Micky alone. It did not seem likely that the vicious gangster would forget the humiliation of being taken down by an impostor. Baby Face was the type to hold grudges, and Micky would be at the top of his hit list.

xxxx

After dinner, and Davy's return from his date, the Monkees headed to the Evanses' home. It was a quaint, white, wood-frame house on the corner. A hedge fenced the yard on all sides, except for where a gate led up the walk in the front. The four young men pushed open said gate and went up to the roofed porch, where boxes were already stacked all around. There was only barely enough room for the Monkees to crowd around the door as Mike rang the doorbell.

"Man, if there's this much stuff outside already, how much more is there inside?" Micky wondered.

Without warning, Peter backed up against him and caused him to crash against one of the towers. Quickly he caught himself by grabbing Peter, which resulted in Peter losing his balance and slamming into Davy, who crashed into Mike. The Texan gave a surprised cry, reaching to steady himself on the storm door just as it was opened by Linda. Immediately all Monkees fell through and ended up on the floor of the entryway while Linda stared in shock. They all looked up at her, sheepish.

"Uh . . . hi," Mike said with a mild wave as everyone began climbing off. The others offered greetings as well, to which Linda responded with warmth.

"It's so good of all of you to come help us," she said as she guided them into the living room. "We have so many things to pack that it's a nightmare." Boxes were already strewn about on the floor and on the furniture, some open and empty, others open and half-filled, and still others closed and full. Various knickknacks, books, and videos could be seen sticking out of the packages, while others were stacked in readiness to be enclosed.

"Yeah, it looks like it," Peter agreed, blinking at the disarray.

"The other rooms are a lot worse than this one," Linda sighed, "especially Henry's sanctuary, where he keeps all of the junk he collects." She idly swept a pile of books into a box as she walked past.

"Well," Peter asked brightly, "where do we start?"

Linda paused at the door leading into the kitchen. "Anywhere you can," she replied. "There's boxes in every room, and everything has to be packed. I just wish we weren't so rushed. . . ." Her eyes flickered with a certain wistfulness before she weakly smiled and leaned against the doorframe. "But oh well. . . . Wishes don't come true, especially in Henry's profession. I guess I should be glad that we're making money at all. Thanks again for your help, guys." Before they could respond, she had disappeared into the next room.

Mike crossed his arms in thoughtfulness as he watched her go. "You know, I wonder what it is that Henry does," he mused. "He's always said that he's a businessman working in the public relations department, but he's never really said any more than that. Neither he or Linda have ever even mentioned where it is he works." He had never found it particularly odd, as he knew that some people did not like to discuss their places of employment and that the Evanses were not happy with Henry's job, but now it did occur to him to wonder exactly what was going on. It seemed strange that this move had come up all of a sudden, almost without any warning.

"I thought it was probably at a local corporation," Davy said with a shrug. "They've always acted like it's something pretty big." He surveyed the room and its disaster zone. "But anyway . . . we'd better get started."

Peter nodded. "There's only a few days to get all this done," he declared, moving a stray box out of his way.

"How hard can it be?" Micky said, dumping a stack of videos into a package the same way he had seen Linda do a moment earlier.

xxxx

They soon found out the hard way. It seemed that every time they turned around, there were more things to pack. Linda's method of merely tossing things into boxes was quite unpractical, as Mike soon pointed out, and they had to spend time making certain that everything was arranged in such a way as to allow for the most to be made of the space.

Then there were other problems. At first they could not figure out how to put together the white boxes that Henry had bought from Office Max. The flaps had to be folded just so, and then drawn up through the bottom of the box, but it took several nonsensical attempts before Mike finally figured it out, and several more tries before the others understood as well.

Later, as Micky reached for some of the things on the hall closet's shelves, other things came tumbling down and nearly buried him and Davy. And when they finally filled a large box of the odds and ends that had spilled, neither of them could lift it. They each struggled and failed, and then tried together, to no avail. The container had not budged an inch.

"I think we filled it too much," Davy moaned, leaning against it in despair. "I nearly threw my back out trying to get it up!"

Micky ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "There's gotta be something we can do," he said. But the knowledge of what that something would be was beyond him.

It was then that Peter came along. He looked with curiosity at his friends and at the box. "Hey guys," he said. "What's wrong?"

"We can't lift the box!" Micky explained, gesturing at it in emphasis.

"It feels like there's a ton of bricks in it!" Davy added.

Peter blinked. "Oh, is that all?" He reached down and picked up the box as if it weighed nothing at all. "It's as light as a feather!" he proclaimed, pleased with himself.

Micky and Davy both gawked at him.

Once everything small in a room was boxed up, there was still the furniture to move out. The Monkees soon discovered that some of it was too heavy to carry, even with two or more of them working on it. And getting things down from upstairs was a nightmare.

"Hey!" Micky exclaimed, perking up from where he was slumped over a couch after an exhausting and failed attempt to move it.

"What is it?" Davy mumbled.

"I've got an idea!" Micky said. "Why not slide the furniture down the stairs? You know, like they're sleds going down a hill!"

The other Monkees stared at him in utter disbelief. "You must be joking," Davy objected.

"Yeah," Peter said. "Something might break."

"Not if we're careful!" Micky said. "Come on, how do you think we're going to get it down? We can't lift it!"

Mike stood up and went to the top of the stairs to inspect the descent. "You might have something there, Micky," he mused. "Let's try it with the couch."

The group crowded around the piece of furniture, pushing it to the edge of the stairs. When it was hanging over the side, they let go. The couch flew down the stairs, skidded across the floor, and crashed into the front door, which slammed shut. The Monkees jumped a mile.

"Well," Mike said after a moment of stunned silence, "I guess it could've been worse."

"Sure!" Micky said, relieved at how it had turned out. "If we make sure not to give the rest of the stuff so much velocity, it'll work!"

Before long, chairs, bookcases, and even loveseats were skiting downstairs while the four boys observed. Linda and Henry remained on the main floor, stunned by the display at first but soon getting used to it.

Henry's sanctuary was entirely another story. He had started to pack some things, but the majority of his memorabilia had been left out because he had not able to bring himself to box it up. When the quartet peered inside, such assorted things as African tribal masks, beaded curtains, jeweled crosses, and laser beams were decorating the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Skull candle holders, vampire pencil toppers, and what looked like a genuine mummy were among the objects on and around the desk—which featured carvings of ogres in the wood. The Monkees stared.

"Gosharooney!" Micky exclaimed at last.

"Obsessed with monsters much?" Mike muttered, not impressed in the least.

"That's disgusting!" Davy cried, eyeing the mummy.

"It's scary," Peter added, his eyes wide.

Mike sighed and stepped into the room, clearing his throat. "Well, we'd better get started," he said, cringing as he did so. "The sooner we start . . . the sooner it'll be over with." He frowned, seeing a stray monkey's paw lying on the floor. With careful precision, he sidestepped it.

Micky glanced down at it as well as he entered. "Hey, a monkey's paw," he remarked.

"Wasn't there a creepy story about one of those?" Peter frowned.

"Yeah, man," Micky said. Idly he picked it up and turned it around in his hands. "It granted wishes, only in ways that no one would want. Like the guy wished for money and he got it."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Peter said. "We could use some money."

Micky dropped the monkey's paw and clapped a hand over Peter's mouth. "But he only got it because his son was killed in a work accident and the company gave the parents some money as compensation!" he exclaimed.

Peter's eyes widened in horror.

Davy rolled his eyes. "Oh come off it, Micky. Stuff like that can't really happen. That wrinkled old thing can't grant any wishes."

"Well, there's no sense taking chances." Slowly Micky removed his hand from Peter's mouth and stepped away. He brushed a piece of straight brown hair away from his eyes as he started sorting through a half-open desk drawer.

Peter wandered over near the closet. As he opened the door, he suddenly discovered a skeleton hanging inside. His eyes widened in horror. "Mike?" he quavered.

Mike raised an eyebrow at him before following his gaze. "Well, what do you know," he mused. "A skeleton in the closet." It should not be a surprise, he supposed, not when there were so many bizarre objects in the room. He did have to wonder, though, if Henry realized the significance of where he had placed the bones. It was somewhat amusing in one way, and yet disturbing in another.

Micky wandered over. "Skeletons don't make good decorations unless it's Halloween," he declared, looking revolted. "But I guess at least it's not some cruel and cold-hearted killer, like Baby Face Morales."

"How do we know what he was like when he was alive?" Peter exclaimed in response.

But Micky was not listening. He had noticed what looked like a small envelope in the carcass's ribcage. Curious, he reached for it to have a better look. After all, he reasoned, people would only store certain things inside a skeleton, and if they were going to do it at all then it needed to be investigated.

Peter let go of Mike's arm as he wandered over. "What's that?" he wanted to know, just as Micky gave a startled cry of his own. Immediately Mike and Davy rushed over as well, just in time to see Micky holding a picture away from him as if it was contaminated.

"What have you got here?" Mike asked, taking the picture from Micky to study it. As he looked at the image, his eyes widened and then narrowed in disbelief. In it, Henry and Linda were standing beside Micky outside a building that bore the name of the company that Davy had believed Henry worked at. All were dressed nicely, with Henry and Micky in business suits and Linda wearing a floral print dress.

"Hey, Micky!" Davy said, scrutinizing the photograph in bewilderment. "Where was this taken? You don't wear suits like this."

Finally recovering, Micky wildly pointed at the offending picture. "That's not me!" he hissed urgently. "That's Baby Face Morales!"


	2. Vengeful Villain

The other Monkees did doubletakes before gazing at the photograph again. "Baby Face Morales?" Mike repeated, the doubt and disbelief still obvious in his expression.

"That's ridiculous! Why would they know a murderer like him?" Davy frowned. He snatched the picture from Mike and turned it over to see if there was a description written on the back, but there was not.

"They wouldn't!" Peter said emphatically. "They're not like him at all! They're good people!" He took the picture himself as he turned to head for the door. "There's got to be a logical explanation! Let's ask them about it." He could not stand the thought that any of his friends would betray him and the others, and in his mind, it simply was not possible. It could not be Micky in the picture, but Peter could not believe that it would be Baby Face Morales, either. Linda and Henry would have no reason to be in a photograph with such a gangster. Surely it must simply be another young man who resembled Micky. In India people were said to have seven doubles, after all.

Before Peter could get very far, he was grabbed by Mike, Micky, and Davy. "Hold on," Mike said sternly, looking into Peter's upset eyes. "If that is Baby Face Morales, we can't risk letting them know we saw the picture. That could get us in a lot of trouble." As much as he did not want to consider it, the Evanses might actually not be their friends. If the couple were on friendly terms with Baby Face Morales, then perhaps they were even working for him and knew about Micky getting him put back in prison after his initial escape. Mike wanted to believe that he was letting his thoughts run wild, yet he knew that his ideas were actually quite plausible under the circumstances.

"That's right," Davy agreed now. "Come on, Peter, we should put it back where it was."

Peter frowned and sighed, his shoulders drooping, but allowed Micky to take it back. "I just . . . don't want to think that they can't be trusted," he said softly. "They've been our friends. . . ."

"We _think_ they've been our friends!" Micky corrected, still nerveshot over the discovery. A skeleton in the closet, indeed! "But if they've been leading us on, then we need to find out subtly so they won't be suspicious." He replaced the picture in the envelope with care and hid it once more in the ribcage before shutting the closet door.

Mike sighed, not certain what to believe. "Why would they even let us come to help them move if they thought we'd find what they had to hide?" he wondered. "That doesn't make a whole lot of sense."

"Aha! But it was just Linda who agreed!" Micky pointed out. "Maybe Henry didn't! He seemed kinda cold and distant tonight, when we saw him at all. Maybe he didn't like Linda saying that we could help, and before he could get rid of the picture, we showed up."

"It's possible," Davy nodded.

"But he could've said that he'd fix this room or something," Mike frowned. "Maybe we walked into a trap."

Peter was no longer listening. He had ventured over near the door, having heard something outside. Now he looked back with urgency. "Henry's coming!" he declared.

His feelings on the situation—and on this new twist—were growing mixed. He desperately wanted to believe that there was a perfectly innocent reason for the picture, but at the same time he knew that it was not actually very logical and that all of them truly might be in danger—and most likely were.

The other Monkees looked at each other, panicked. For a quick moment they raced about, tripping over various boxes and relics in their attempts to reach inconspicuous places in the room. But just as the door was pushed open further and Henry walked in, they were satisfied that he would not know that they had been into the incriminating closet.

"Oh hi, Henry!" Micky grinned, waving from where he was holding a mop with a carved handle.

"How's it going?" Peter asked, unaware that he was adorned in an Indian headdress. Mike shook his head and sighed, lifting it off of him.

"We were just gonna clean up things in here," Davy put in, picking up a box in emphasis. Unfortunately for him, the bottom gave out and the contents immediately went spilling everywhere. The British Monkee watched in shock and disbelief, then gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry about that," he apologized. Promptly he set about to repair the broken box.

Henry briefly gawked at all of them before sobering again. "Nevermind," he said, his voice firm. "You four go help Linda. I'll pack the stuff in here." He took the mop from Micky with a gesture of finality. Was it Micky's imagination, or did Henry give him a bit of an odd look as this happened?

"You sure?" Mike asked carefully, speaking with more of a drawl than he usually did as he hoped that he sounded casual enough. "I mean, we'd be happy to . . ."

"Linda was saying that she could use your help downstairs," Henry told them. "I think you'd all better hurry along."

Seeing that Davy was having trouble sorting out the box, Henry shook his head and went to take it from him. He managed to repair the bottom in an instant before kneeling down to gather up the odds and ends that had been in it.

Davy watched this with a certain awe before everything truly dawned on him. It seemed innocent enough, and a few minutes earlier none of them would have thought anything of it, but now that they had seen the secret of the closet it seemed only too obvious that Henry was trying to kick all of them out.

"Well," Peter said cheerfully, "if that's what she wants, we'd better go down there." He quickly walked past the other Monkees, who collectively looked after him. Did Peter realize that, in light of the picture, Henry seemed to be acting suspicious? With Peter, it was hard to tell if his cheeriness was only an act.

Hurriedly the other three Monkees followed their friend out, all having the feeling that Henry's gaze was boring into their backs until they had exited the room.

Indeed, the man only relaxed once they were gone. With a sigh he went back to his chair and started to sit in it before remembering that several sharp objects had been placed there. Scowling, he placed them on the desk and then sat down again, taking out his cellphone as he did. He took a furtive glance around the room before dialing a number. As the phone rang, he swiveled his chair to face the wall.

It was only a moment before an answer came. "Yeah, what is it?" a cold and harsh voice asked.

Henry gave a quiet smirk. "Everything's going according to plan, Boss," he declared, then narrowed his eyes. "I just hope they're not wise."

"With them, it's hard to tell," Henry's boss replied. "The one guy, the dummy who looks like me, has a lot of guts. You know he'd have to, or he never would've done what he did the last time. And those friends of his are pretty kooky. Tony told me they blew up a piano instead of the fireplace!"

Henry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that sounds like them," he remarked. "But they're not complete idiots, not even the blond one. We havta watch out for them. They're not gonna take kindly to what you want to do."

"I know. But I'll do the worrying. You just get me Micky Dolenz." There was a sharp click as the phone was hung up.

Henry's eyes narrowed at this and he fell to muttering to himself as he got up to begin packing. His expression would have darkened all the more if he had realized that the Monkees were eavesdropping just outside the door.

xxxx

Baby Face Morales folded up his girlfriend Ruby's phone and replaced it in his pocket. He was leaning on the bar at the Purple Pelican, coldly watching the people passing by.

Ruby was standing next to him, biting her lip as she worried and wondered about what he was scheming this time. She loved him in spite of the fact that he was such a notorious larcenist and murderer, though she often wished that he would give up his life of crime and run away with her so that they could share their lives together.

But of course it would not happen. Baby Face was greedy and grasping, and right now he was driven by a need for revenge. He did not take kindly to people pretending to be his family and then even himself. And he also did not appreciate being betrayed by those who had once been his associates.

"Baby Face," Ruby ventured at last, as he continued to glare into the distance, "why don't you just forget about Tony and the others and let them have their own gang? You could always find new people who would be better." She moved closer to him and reached up to gently run a hand through his hair. He started and frowned at this, but then let her do it for the moment.

"I know I could," he answered darkly, "but they've gotta learn that no one double-crosses me and gets away with it. Dolenz isn't exempt from my retaliation and neither are they." He commanded respect, and if not that, then fear. He would make everyone afraid to turn against him. Tony and his cohorts would regret it someday, very soon—but by then it would be too late for them.

"We ought to just go off somewhere and leave all of this behind," Ruby pleaded, not willing to give up. They had had this conversation many times before, but always with the same result. "We could go to Detroit again, or maybe someplace new." She smiled hopefully. "We could try Chicago, or New York. . . ."

"Cool it, baby," came the sharp response. "We're staying right here." The mobster stood up straight, moving away from the bar. "I've gotta knock off the others. Then maybe we'll talk about going somewhere else."

He grabbed an abandoned drink off of a table and downed it in one gulp. "I wanted Dolenz to be the last to go." He glowered at the empty glass, as if blaming it for his problems. "Tony and the others were supposed to drop dead one by one, while we'd make sure that the cops found the bodies. Then Dolenz would've started to sweat. He'd know those guys were connected with me, and then he'd know that I'd be gunnin' for him too." He threw the glass against the wall as the startled bartender ducked. "But all of them have gone into hiding now that they've busted out of the pen! It's gonna take a while to find them. So the plan's changed. Now Dolenz'll be first."

Ruby frowned as she watched him. "Maybe you should leave him alone too," she objected.

Baby Face whirled to glare harshly at her. "You'd better not be havin' feelings for him," he threatened low. It was obvious from his eyes that not even Ruby would be spared if she betrayed him. He did not think he loved her as she did him, but he considered her as being his and he did not want to give her up because of that. He had never been willing to give up anything that he had determined was his. Ruby knew all of that, somewhere in her heart, but it did not help her to love him any less.

She took a step back now. "Of course not, Baby Face!" she exclaimed, hurrying to rectify her mistake. She sighed, looking into his eyes. "It just seems like . . . like you have too much blood on your hands already," she told him softly. "I just wish it would all stop. . . ."

Baby Face grunted. "You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to be my girl," he retorted. "You knew you wouldn't be able to get away from all the crimes—the heists and the betrayals and the murders." His eyes narrowed. "Tony wouldn't hesitate to bump me off now. I'm just gonna beat him to it."

Tony had actually been a police officer in Detroit, but due to a tragic series of events he had fallen into corruption long before he had actually joined Baby Face's mob. He had committed extortion and run a gambling ring all while hypocritically trying to uphold the law. But eventually he had had enough and had joined Baby Face. The gangster had suspected that someday Tony would want out of the mob, but that made very little difference to him. He had still been betrayed, even if he had seen it coming, and Tony should know what would now be coming to him.

His relationship with his former associate was very twisted and complicated, and no one save the two of them fully understood it—and each other. Perhaps it was that very comprehension of each other's hearts that had driven them to their current stance against one another. It was hard to say. But even as Baby Face had the desire to kill Tony for his betrayal, there was another part of him that wanted his associate to return. He did not understand it, but their lives—their fates—were intertwined far more than he even realized. They were not friends, nor did they even like each other, and yet their connection was undeniable to them both.

Ruby's shoulders slumped. "Yeah," she replied, bringing him back to the present, "I know."

And though she wished things would be different, she knew that they would not be and that she had to accept that fact. She would be happy to remain with Baby Face throughout whatever else happened—although she wondered now and then what her mother would think if she ever found out about the crowds her daughter was associating with.

xxxx

The Monkees were extremely tense during the remainder of the time that they spent at the Evanses' home. It was obvious that Henry had been talking on the phone about them, and it had not sounded positive. And though they tried to assure Linda that nothing was wrong, she had noticed how overly jumpy they seemed to be.

Mike took notice of this. Could Linda be in on whatever Henry was planning? She had been in the photograph as well, so it seemed likely that she would know, but it was possible that she could have innocently believed Baby Face to be a friend of Henry's—though if that were so, Mike found it strange that she had never commented to Micky on how much he looked like the friend.

The next day went by in relative peace as our friends again went to assist the Evanses. They had to keep pretending that everything was alright, but there was the worry that it was much too easy to see through their facade. Both Linda and Henry often cast strange glances at them throughout the day, and Peter felt as though they were looking right into his mind and seeing that he knew about the photograph. Once he nearly blurted out something about it, but Micky managed to stop him in time.

The day after that, when they went to help again, they found an unmarked moving van parked in the driveway. Henry was lifting the boxes on the porch into it, with the assistance of two men in coveralls.

Curious, the quartet moved closer. Was their aid still needed? Peter nearly tripped over a package that was right in front of the van's ramp, and Mike and Davy had to grab him before he could fall over.

Henry looked over now, amusement in his eyes. "Still the picture of grace," he remarked sardonically. Peter pouted.

"Well, hello there, Henry," Mike greeted cheerfully. "How are things going? That's some truck you've got there."

Henry nodded. "I just got it from a friend," he said.

"Oh." Micky gazed at the men in coveralls, who were obviously staring him down. A slight frown crossed his features. "And did they come with it?" he asked.

Henry blinked, as if not understanding at first what Micky meant. Then he chuckled. "No, but my friends sent them over." He looked to them. "These are our neighbors, The Monkees. They've been helping us move."

Mike's eyes narrowed as he watched. It looked like Henry was giving them a very pointed look. They both nodded stoically, looking at each Monkee in turn and particularly watching Micky, who shifted in discomfort. Mike's frown deepened.

"Well," Davy said slowly, breaking the moment of silence that had ensued, "I guess you don't need us anymore, do you? I mean, now that you have this van, and these guys to help out. . . ." He gestured to the movers and then to the stack of boxes still on the porch. He shuddered slightly as he noticed three of Henry's mummy cases propped up against the railing. Honestly, he collected the strangest and most bizarre things.

"Nonsense," Henry retorted in an instant. He stared them down in a way that made them feel all the more uneasy. "There's still all the things in the house that there's no room for on the porch. The more people helping, the faster this will get done." He sighed, setting a box down just inside the van and running a hand over his forehead. "My boss called again and said that we have to pick up the pace. Now we have to be on our way to Detroit by this evening."

"This evening?" Micky exclaimed. "Isn't that pushing it? I thought you'd have a few more days, at least."

Henry's expression suddenly became cold. "It can't be helped," he said, before suddenly seeming to relax again. "But anyway, come on, guys, stay and help out. We can definitely still use you. There's still some of the furniture inside that needs to come out, and we'll have to remove the door to get some of it outside."

"Wouldn't it have been better to have brought out all the furniture first and then the boxes?" Mike asked with a confused frown.

Henry shook his head. "The porch was already so stacked up that we wouldn't have been able to get any furniture out unless we got rid of the stuff on it first," he answered. "And we're going to be working long into the night, so we'd better get to it if we're going to make my boss's deadline."

Now his gaze fell upon Micky and remained there for longer than the drummer would have liked. Henry was looking at him without really seeing him. Instead he was pondering over what it was that his boss intended to do with the boy once he got hold of him.

The entire reason that he and Linda had moved there in the first place was so that they would be able to be close by The Monkees in order to spy on them and to determine when they would be able to get the one that Baby Face wanted. Micky's resemblance to the mobster was uncanny, but Henry had forced himself to get over it during the time that he and Linda had been befriending them. Linda had actually grown fond of all of them and did not want to have to hurt them by doing Baby Face's bidding, but Henry insisted and she knew that they had to do it or else they would be killed themselves.

Micky looked away from Henry's stare, trying to grin and ignore it. "Okay then," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's get started." But he could not help having the feeling that something was going to go terribly wrong.

xxxx

For the next several hours, the Monkees worked on getting everything out of the house and to the van. At first everything seemed to be going perfectly well, though Peter noticed that Linda was very obviously upset about something. He tried to ask her several times, but she always insisted that she was fine and that it was just that she was tired. It seemed to Peter, however, that it must actually be something else. The others concurred, but since Linda did not want to talk about it, there was little that they could do.

Micky was in the van, moving boxes onto the couch, when someone came up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the footsteps and came face-to-face with Henry. He looked back to the boxes, wanting to be able to relax, but it was no use. He was still extremely tense.

"It looks like things are going well," he commented, trying to sound casual. "I think you're going to make your deadline." He lifted another box up after going through a bit of a struggle with it. Once he finally had it in position, he glared at it and brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes.

"Yes, I think so, too," Henry answered smoothly. "You and the others have been a great help."

Micky turned to look at him, and as he did so Henry abruptly placed his hands behind his back. Micky frowned. Was it just a coincidence? Or had Henry been about to strike him?

"Well, you know, we're just helping our friends," he said with a smile.

"And we're grateful," Henry assured him, coming closer and laying a hand on Micky's shoulder. The drummer stiffened, though he tried not to show it. Then he blinked. Why was he starting to feel so drowsy?

"All this hard work makes you really exhausted," he said, trying to stifle a yawn and failing.

"I know," Henry said, moving away from Micky again and coming to stand in front of him. "But you'll have a chance to rest soon now."

Micky yawned again. "That's good," he said. Suddenly a chill went through his veins. He really should not be this tired all of a sudden. Had Henry drugged him?

"Very soon," Henry smiled, as Micky lost consciousness and fell forward. Henry caught him just before he would have crashed to the floor, then held him with one arm while replacing in his pocket the bottle containing knock-out potion. Shaking his head, he dragged the Monkee to one of the open sarcophagi that was lying on the floor and placed him within it. There would be enough air to get him to where Baby Face Morales was, and after that Henry's assignment would be over and he truly would be able to go away with Linda—but not to Detroit. The police would look for them there.

Sighing, Henry closed the lid on the coffin and straightened up. He did not especially enjoy working for someone such as Baby Face, but he would do what had to be done in order to survive. And unlike Linda, he could not afford to feel bad about it or to wish things were different.


	3. Two Baby Faces?

The remaining three Monkees lingered at the house for a while longer, helping to pack the items that were left and saying goodbye to Henry and Linda. It had taken so long to accomplish everything that none of them had consciously noticed their friend's absence—until now.

"Hey," Davy exclaimed, glancing around the yard, "where did Micky go?"

Immediately Mike frowned, angry with himself for not having discovered this earlier. "He's gone?" he demanded.

Peter bit his lip, the worry obvious in his eyes. "He should be here," he said, looking to Linda and Henry as if hoping for an explanation from them—and in fact, he was. Still unable to believe their guilt, at the same time he recognized that it could be the truth. If only he could know for certain! Now it looked as though Micky might have paid the price if they were enemies. Peter would feel extremely guilty and upset with himself if, because of his failure to notice Micky's disappearance, Micky ended up hurt.

"He told me that he was going to the corner drugstore to get some sodas," Henry put in, speaking calmly and nonchalantly. "I wish we could stay and wait for him to get back, but we really do have to be on our way."

He looked at Linda for confirmation and saw the pleading look in her eyes. She knew that Micky was not at the corner drugstore, and that Henry was abducting him for Baby Face, and she wanted more than anything to not have to be involved. But Henry and she both knew that she was involved and that she could not ruin things now.

At least, Henry hoped that she knew it. Quickly he grabbed her hand and started leading her to the cab of the van before she could suddenly decide to announce the truth.

"Oh . . . well, I hate long goodbyes anyway," Davy said with a weak smile.

And soon the van was being maneuvered out of the driveway and into the street. But as they watched it go, Mike's ill sensations persisted. Something was wrong, and the secret was in that van. The feeling only increased as more time went by without Micky returning.

"What are we going to do, Michael?" Peter exclaimed, reverting to using Mike's full name—as he tended to do when he was upset.

"They probably took him with them somehow!" Davy added, frustrated and angry over this development. They had all treated the Evanses as friends, and had thought that their neighbors returned those feelings—but if they were kidnapping Micky, then the Monkees had been drastically wrong about the kind of people that they were.

Mike swallowed hard. "Well, we've gotta stay calm," he advised. "Tell you what—two of us'll go down to that drugstore and see if he's there, while the other stays behind and waits to see if he comes back." He ran a hand through his hair. "And . . . well, if he doesn't come back, and he's not at the drugstore, then we'll havta call the police and have them stop that van."

He looked firmly from Davy to Peter, who were both at the brink of tears. "We'll get him back," the Texan promised. Inwardly he prayed that he could make good on that promise.

"Why would they even want him anyway?" Davy cried as he watched Mike and Peter hurry down the street.

"I don't know," Mike called back, "but it probably has something to do with Baby Face Morales." Perhaps they were even assassins hired by Baby Face to get rid of Micky. Mike tried to push that thought out of his mind. At any rate, he did not want to make mention of it to Peter. The blond Monkee was already upset enough.

xxxx

Micky remained unconscious for quite some time due to the effect of the knock-out aroma that Henry had managed to unleash. When he at last began to revive, everything was a confused blur. Sleep continued to cling to him even as something else pulled him into the real world.

"Oh man . . . did anyone get the number of that truck?" he mumbled as he tried to pry his eyes open. His head was pounding.

His eyes flew open wide at the darkness that greeted him. What was going on? Why was everything dark? Was he blind?

"Hello?" he called, panic building. "Mike? Davy? Pete? Where are you guys?"

It was so stuffy in here, too. "Hey," he gasped in realization. He reached above his head. The ceiling was right there. And the walls were just to his sides. He was not blind; he was trapped!

Without another thought he pounded on the hard metal roof. "Hey!" he yelled. "Let me out of here! Help!"

But there was no answer. And as the container was abruptly jostled, another realization came to the hapless Monkee. Wherever he was, he was moving. Was he in the van?

"Okay," he said to himself. "I've got to stay calm. I can't use up all the air in here." It was easy enough to say that, but it was hard to keep himself under control. He wanted out, and he wanted out now!

He swallowed hard, trying to concentrate on clues that would help him determine where he was. It was metal, so that narrowed the possibilities. Maybe he was in a cupboard, or a wardrobe, or . . . a sarcophagus. That would fit with the indentations he could feel in the ceiling, as though something was carved out of it.

His stomach twisted at this possibility. It would be a place that Henry might think was the best. Micky would be able to move around much less in a coffin than in a wardrobe. And Henry would easily be able to smuggle him somewhere else, since no one would think that the case would be extraordinarily heavy. On the contrary, they would probably expect it to be heavy, since the normal thing would be to carry a mummy inside.

But where would Henry be trying to take him? Why did Henry want him at all? Did he somehow know that they had found that picture and he felt that they knew too much? Wouldn't he want all four of them if that truly were the case? He must have had a special reason for taking Micky in particular, and perhaps it had something to do with Baby Face Morales. Micky's sick feeling increased.

Was there any way at all of getting out of the coffin? Maybe Henry had not expected Micky to wake up before reaching the destination and had not sealed things up as much as he might have ordinarily done. If he could figure out how to open it and get out, perhaps he could then find a time to open the back door of the truck and escape, such as when it was stopped at a red light. Right now it did not seem as though it was slowing down at all, so it was likely that it was on the freeway—but sooner or later it would have to get off and enter a town.

Carefully the drummer began going over every inch of the casket that he could reach, hoping to find some sort of trapdoor or some way to raise the lid from inside—but to no avail. Either Henry had indeed locked the sarcophagus just in case, or else it was like a refrigerator and there was not a way to open it from the inside even if it was unlocked. Micky slammed his hand down on the metal in frustration, then winced. There had to be something he could do. He certainly was not in the mood to die today.

_Hey,_ he mused silently, _maybe if I pretend that I'm still knocked out, Henry will have his guard down when he opens this thing and I'll have a chance to surprise him and get away!_ It was as good a plan as any, and really the only plan he could think of under the circumstances. Just in time, too—as he felt the vehicle stop.

Letting out a breath he had not realized he was holding, the brunet made himself go limp as he closed his eyes. _Just stay calm,_ he told himself as he heard the cab door open and footsteps coming around to the back of the van. This, however, was not an easy task. His stomach was doing somersaults, and he had the terrible urge to grab some kind of cloth and twist it in his hands, but he forced himself to lie perfectly still. Soon he heard the rolling door in the back go up and two unfamiliar voices—most likely the movers—speaking.

"Is he sure this is the right place?" the first voice, which was gravelly and sounded annoyed, muttered low to his companion.

"Yeah, he showed us the slip of paper with the address on it." The second voice was softer and smoother, though also annoyed. "This is it."

There was the sound of something being kicked over. The first voice cursed, then its owner stepped right over to the coffin. "Help me get the thing out," he growled. "It's heavy enough without a living person in it."

The second voice laughed. "Well, it's not as if he'll be living for much longer, once Baby Face gets him. Maybe he's even suffocated already."

Micky gulped as his prison was lifted up and carried out of the truck. His time to get away was coming up quickly, but would he have a chance at all? Perhaps he would be greeted by Baby Face and his gang, all holding machine guns. _Think happy thoughts,_ he counseled himself repeatedly, though it was easier said than done.

The coffin jerked about and nearly crashed onto the ground. Micky gasped, grabbing onto the sides out of instinct. He only barely managed to stop himself from exclaiming out loud.

"Watch it!" snapped the second, still in his quiet voice. "If he is still alive, then we're not the ones who're supposed to rub him out."

"Sorry," grumbled the first.

Now the sarcophagus was being lowered onto what was probably the floor. Micky willed himself to remain still. He would hopefully get his chance any moment.

Now there were more approaching footsteps. He tensed at the sound. Was it Baby Face?

"I still don't like this!" a familiar, female voice objected. It was Linda. "Henry, he and the others thought that we were their friends, and we're betraying them like common criminals! I don't want to be thought of in years to come as someone in the same category as Baby Face Morales!"

"We've already been through this," Henry retorted as he began to unlock the lid. "This is the way it has to be. You know Baby Face will kill us both if we don't cooperate."

The sarcophagus creaked open and light flooded onto Micky's face. It was hard to resist the urge to blink rapidly after having been in the dark for so long, but he somehow managed, and continued to be limp as Henry and the movers reached in to pull him out.

"Is he still alive?" Linda worried.

"Yeah, he is," the first mover replied. "Too bad for him. It'd probably be better for him to croak before Baby Face gets hold of him."

This was as good a time as any to make his getaway. Suddenly Micky came to life, pushing and shoving against his captors and managing to get free as they stumbled and stared at him in confusion and shock. "Sorry!" he yelled back as he blindly ran out of the well-furnished room they were in. "I don't wanna have a reunion with the sneaky, vicious face!"

It only took Henry a moment to realize that he was being outsmarted by a Monkee. Angrily, he and the movers ran after him in hot pursuit. Linda hesitated, feeling helpless, and then ran after them as well, still hoping to get Henry to leave Micky alone.

Micky dashed wildly through the spacious rooms, occasionally crashing into something and knocking it down in his haste to stay alive. Was this Baby Face's new hideout? Or maybe it belonged to one of his associates. Would Micky survive long enough to find out? The others were still stampeding after him.

In a panic, he opened the first door he came to. Quickly he shut and locked it behind him, then waited anxiously to hear if they would pass him by. To his immense relief, they ran right past the room and went on their way. He was safe, for now.

After waiting another moment, he began to grope along the wall for a light switch. When he at last found one and clicked it on, rows and rows of clothes greeted him on all sides. He was in a giant walk-in closet that looked like it was as big or bigger than the entire front room of the Pad. He allowed himself a moment of awe before becoming serious again.

"Gosharooney!" he murmured, wandering amongst the aisles. Was there anything here that could be of use to him? If he could get a good disguise, perhaps he could sneak right off the premises and find help. After all, he was a master of disguise—when the need arose. And certainly there was a great need right now.

As he continued to weave his way through the room-sized closet, several business suits of various colors caught his eye. Matching hats were on a shelf above them. And suddenly he got an idea. It was risky, and he truly did not relish the prospect at all, but if he could pull it off he would have the best masquerade possible and it would be much easier for him to successfully get away. Not only that, but he might learn something about what was going on.

He only hesitated a moment more before grabbing a blue suit.

xxxx

Henry cursed low, coming to a stop several corridors away. "He has to be somewhere in here," he hissed, frustrated that he had not considered the possibility that Micky would pull a trick like that. He had believed that Micky would stay unconscious for a long while, and yet he had locked the coffin anyway, as a precaution. When he had lifted the lid and had found Micky lying lifeless inside, he had been certain that the drug had not worn off yet. And that had caused the confusion that was taking place now.

"Who has to be?" came a cold demand from around the corner.

Henry started, recognizing the gravelly tones of his boss's voice. This was definitely not going to look good for him. He had caught the Monkee that Baby Face wanted, and now that Monkee was loose somewhere in the manor. He could only hope that the mobster would not consider that grounds enough to kill him and Linda. Quickly he whirled around, just in time to see Baby Face giving him an icy glare.

"Boss!" he exclaimed, with unfeigned surprise. "When did you get here?"

"Nevermind that," Baby Face snapped, his eyes flashing. "Did you get Dolenz or not?"

Henry slowly nodded. "I did," he confirmed, "and he's here, Boss. It's just that. . . ." He swallowed hard, seeing the gangster growing impatient. "It's just that we don't know where in the house he is," he finished sheepishly.

Baby Face looked disgusted. "You let him outsmart you?"

Henry's lip curled and he resented the question, even though he knew it was true. "No," he insisted. "He just momentarily took us by surprise, but he's still here, Boss. With the security system and the guards, he wouldn't be able to get out without us knowing."

Baby Face glared. "I wouldn't be too sure," he scolded. "He's got his ways. It's annoying, but he's got a brain and he knows how to use it. Too bad I can't say the same for my associates." With that he walked past the astonished and angry Henry and continued to walk down the hall in the direction from which Henry had come.

"I was already down there," the Monkees' neighbor growled between clenched teeth. "There's nothing to see."

"I'll be the judge of that," Baby Face retorted.

Henry felt himself fume as he fell into step beside the crime lord. Obviously Baby Face himself had been outsmarted by Micky or he would not have ended up in prison because of the drummer. But of course no one could actually point that out. It would be almost certain death to do so. So instead Henry tried to force himself to think of a different topic for discussion.

"We still haven't found where Tony and the others are hiding," he said at last, figuring that Baby Face would also be wanting information on his former gang members.

There was a momentary flicker of surprise in the other's eyes, but then it was swiftly gone again. "Oh?" There was a pause before Baby Face spoke once more. "Well, I knew it wouldn't be easy," he said then. "But they're not gonna stay hidden forever. Sooner or later one of them'll make a mistake and cause us to get tipped off, and then we'll get them."

Henry nodded slowly, watching as Baby Face opened the door to a bedroom and looked inside. "I never really knew those punks too well," he admitted, "since I was around before and after them. Which one is the most likely to mess up?"

There was a silence as Baby Face pondered over the answer to the question. "Well, at first glance you might think it'd be Vince—Mugsy," he answered at last, still speaking in the same cold tone. "After all, he's more brawn than brains. But sometimes those kinda types fool you."

Instead of continuing his analysis, the mobster then slammed the door shut and turned to look at Henry. "Enough of the chitchat. You're gonna help me find Dolenz at all costs, Henry, or you might find that you've messed up yourself. And you know what I do to those who mess up." Without waiting for Henry's response, Baby Face turned and began walking down a new hallway, as Henry glared after him.

Once he was safely out of Henry's sight, Micky sighed to himself and momentarily slumped against the wall. It had been a while since he had pretended to be the notorious killer, but it seemed that his performance had fooled his neighbor.

And now he had indeed learned something of what was going on. It seemed that he was not the only one whom Baby Face was seeking. He should not be so surprised that the tension between Baby Face and the other, former gang members had exploded into such a serious conflict, yet it still did surprise him in a way. But that seemed to be how life worked in the criminal underworld. There was no sense in staying and pondering over it.

The Monkee straightened up and hurried to find the nearest exit.

xxxx

By this time the other three Monkees were at a loss. They had found that Micky was not at the corner drugstore, nor had he been there at all. The clerk had said that no one matching Micky's description had been there since they had opened for the day. And that, of course, said to them that Henry had been lying.

"There are other possibilities," Mike said slowly.

He, Peter, and Davy were sitting on the porch steps at the Evanses' home, wondering how to find their friend. The police could not put out a missing persons report until Micky had been gone for at least twenty-four hours. And the trio could not go and tell them about their suspicions without having the photo as evidence to back up their story.

"Oh?" Davy frowned, looking at him with curiosity. "Like what?"

Mike sighed, glancing at Peter before finally saying what was on his mind. "Maybe Micky really was going to the drugstore and he didn't ever make it there," he suggested quietly. "He could've gotten into an accident and be lying somewhere hurt." Or worse, he added to himself. He hated to think it, but it could very well be true. It was more likely that Henry had lied and that he had Micky, but Mike—being the practical one—knew that they should not ignore other scenarios.

Davy looked down at the ground, pondering over this. "But it seems like we would've heard something," he objected, "like an ambulance, or people being upset. . . ." Neither he or Mike wanted to voice what else they were thinking, but Peter said it himself.

"Maybe no one knew it happened!" the blond Monkee exclaimed, his brown eyes filled with fear and worry for their friend. "It could've been a hit-and-run kind of thing, and maybe no one was around to help him after the person drove off!"

He cringed at the images that were filling his mind. Tears came to his eyes. He could not stand to think of such cruelty, especially if it involved one of his close friends. Poor Micky! There was no telling what kind of trouble he could have gotten into.

Davy looked to Peter, wanting to comfort him. "Don't worry, Peter," he soothed. "I'm sure that didn't happen. It's much more likely that he was taken by Henry and Linda." And of course, that was not a pleasant thought either. But surely they would have taken him alive. The idea that they could have killed him first was horrifying. How could their friend be murdered right under their noses? No, Micky had to be alive. That was the only thing that could be.

"Hey!" Mike said suddenly, snapping his fingers and brightening. "A lot of people have probably seen that van by now. Let's go ask around the neighborhood. We're bound to find out something about where it was headed. Maybe we'd be able to head it off."

"But I thought they were going to Detroit," Davy frowned in confusion.

"Well, yeah, that's what they said," Mike agreed, "but maybe they weren't actually planning to go there. If they really did take Micky, then my guess is that they've been planning it for a while. And if that's true, then they already know that the police'll be coming to find him and might come down the highway to Detroit to head them off. So it's possible that they've done something else and are gonna take Micky elsewhere. It could be that they're even still right here in the city." With that he stood in determination. "So let's go find them!" he cried.

Davy and Peter leaped up as well, equally resolved to do everything in their power to discover their vanished friend. They would not give up until Micky was safe and back with them.


	4. Goodbye, Goodbye

It was a long thirty minutes later when Micky finally found a door leading outside, and he was only able to use it after telling the maid there that he was going to check the yard for "Micky." Once he was on the porch, with the door safely shut behind him, he leaned on it and adjusted his tie while surveying the area.

If there were a gate surrounding the property, he desperately hoped that it would not either have spikes at the top or be electrically charged. The last thing he wanted to do was to wind up impaled or electrocuted when he tried to get out. He also did not want to meet up with anyone else, but in this he was disappointed.

"Baby Face!"

He turned abruptly at the high-pitched, feminine voice. It was Ruby; she was hurrying over to him from a dark car that was parked at the head of a long and winding driveway. He swallowed hard, but then put on his cold, Baby Face expression. Hopefully it would fool Ruby as it had done before. She was a nice girl, and Micky did not especially like tricking her, but he had to think about his safety. If she knew that he was not her boyfriend, then he doubted that she would let him get away.

"Yeah, it's me," he said, adopting his gravelly tone. "I'm looking for Dolenz. He's on the property somewhere."

Ruby blinked as she reached the porch. "I know," she replied. "You told me, and you said to keep watching in case you missed him and he came out of the house."

She stopped and gave him a searching look. Was he feeling alright? Or . . . was this even her Baby Face? She had found out, of course, that Micky had impersonated him in the past, and she had wondered if he would dare to try it again. But she did not dare say anything at this point. If this were Baby Face, he would be highly insulted and furious if she did not know it was he.

Micky blinked back at her. "I did? . . . Oh! I did," he said with a weak grin. Inwardly, his hopes were plummeting. Baby Face was here, right in the house? He had hoped that the crime lord had not arrived yet. Now it was even less likely that he would be able to get away, unless he could plan it just right. But how would he explain to Ruby?

Outwardly he sobered, seeing that she was giving him a strange look. "So, I guess he hasn't come out then, has he?" he asked.

Ruby bit her lip. "I don't think so," she replied slowly. "Are you sure you're okay, Baby Face?" She had not seen him acting so strangely since that one night when he had broken out of prison the last time. She knew now that the first time he had come in, it had probably actually been Micky. And she was getting the feeling that this was him again. But that made her wonder where the real Baby Face was. If he met Micky now, and realized that Micky was trying to masquerade as him once more, then he would be even angrier than he had previously been. It would most assuredly be curtains for the hapless Micky.

"I'm fine," Micky retorted, doing his best to sound annoyed. "Just keep watching for him, Ruby." His eyes narrowed. "That idiot might decide to impersonate me again, so if you see someone else wandering around dressed up like this, it's probably him." He was taking a chance by saying this, but he hoped that it would be a way to stall for time. If Baby Face came out after Micky fled, then hopefully Ruby would indeed try to keep him there for at least a few minutes, giving Micky more of a head-start.

Ruby hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. "Okay, Baby Face," she agreed.

Micky nodded in approval. "Now, I'm gonna go look around the yard for a bit. He could've tried to sneak out some other way." He wanted to ask Ruby about the exits off the property, but if he was supposed to know all about them then it would only make him look all the more suspicious. So instead he brushed past her and walked down the porch steps and around the marble pillars to the side of the manor. Ruby's gaze was upon him, but he tried to ignore it.

_wonder who owns this place,_ he mused to himself. Perhaps none of the gang actually did, and they were simply holed up in someone else's house while the owners were on vacation.

As Micky arrived at the back of the house, a growling sound became audible nearby. Swallowing hard, he looked down to see a vicious Doberman pinscher snarling at him as it started to rise from where it had been reclining on the grass.

"Nice doggy," he tried to say, his voice shaking as he began to back up. The dog advanced, and as it lunged Micky let out a yelp of horror and began to flee across the grass. "This is why I hate dogs!" he exclaimed as the Doberman followed in hot pursuit. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that one should never run from dogs when they were being aggressive, but he was already much too panic-stricken to even try to stop at this point. He was desperately praying that he would get back to the manor or to a tree that he could climb before the dog got close enough to drag him to the ground.

In the middle of running, he suddenly crashed into someone coming from the opposite direction and they both landed on the ground in a heap. The Doberman quickly caught up to them and begin sniffing at them both, growling as it did so.

Micky tensed, gripping at several blades of grass as the dog pawed at him. It was surprising that he was not being mauled to death, but he was certainly not complaining. He tried not to think too much about it. Then there came a familiar and unwelcome voice.

"Good work, Butch." The person Micky had rammed into slowly got up and reached to pet the dog, who whined softly in appreciation. The Monkee looked up in disbelief. He was looking in a mirror. That certain sick feeling came over him again.

"Oh uh, hi, Baby Face," he greeted, trying to appear calm and casual.

The gangster let the dog go and looked down at him, his eyes flashing with anger and hate. "You dirty, rotten, sneaky, vicious creep," he hissed, grabbing Micky up by his jacket. "You thought you could get away from me that easily, did you?" He shoved Micky up against a nearby tree while Butch began to pace around it. "Now you're gonna find out what happens to guys like you, who think they can outsmart Baby Face Morales!"

Micky shifted in discomfort, his thoughts racing as he tried to force Baby Face away from him. It was not likely that he would survive this. Baby Face was heartless, and he especially hated Micky.

"Can't we talk this over?" the Monkee protested, finding that Baby Face's grip on him was like iron. "I mean, you don't wanna kill more people, do you? You'll end up getting the chair!" Butch growled and Micky cringed, wishing that the dog would go away.

"That's only if I get caught again," Baby Face retorted, "and I'm not going to." He sneered wickedly as his mob slinked out of the shadows, all of them bearing their guns. "You're gonna croak this time, Dolenz, but not here." He gazed around the yard, then back at Micky. "Too messy. No, you're gonna die in the house. And if you come along quietly, maybe we'll make it not too painful and make it seem like it was an accident instead of cold-blooded murder."

Micky shuddered as he was dragged away from the tree and forced to walk toward the house at gunpoint. "Gee, that's really nice of you," he said sarcastically, all the while trying to think of another opportunity to break away.

As they approached the back porch, he got his chance.

"Baby Face!"

Everyone looked up at the sound of the voice. It was Ruby again, and she was looking both hopeful and confused. Most likely she was wondering whether Baby Face had actually caught Micky or if Micky were still pretending and could have turned the tables. At least, that was the impression Micky got as she looked from him to the real Baby Face and back again.

Baby Face looked up at her, his eyes cold. "We caught Dolenz," he proclaimed. "But how did he get outside? I told you to keep watch for him!" His eyes flashed. Did Baby Face suspect that Micky had tricked her?

Ruby again looked from Micky to Baby Face, and Micky thought he saw a spark of guilt in her eyes. Would she suffer because of her mistake? He was not certain if Baby Face would hurt a woman or not. He suspected that the gangster would not, but there was no way that he could be sure.

"I tried to watch for him, Baby Face!" she retorted.

Micky glanced around wildly. Did he dare to try again? "Don't be fooled!" he cried then, looking at Baby Face's lackeys. "I'm the real Baby Face! Dolenz is trying to pretend to be me, alright, and all of you idiots are buying it!" There were flickers of doubt in some of their eyes, and he took encouragement from that. If he could get them to doubt just long enough to take their guns away from him, he might be able to break away from Baby Face and escape into the house for temporary safety.

Immediately he was viciously slapped by Baby Face. "Shut up," the mobster snapped. "I don't want to hear any more out of you."

Micky tried to push back the rising panic. "Why?" he shot back. "Are you worried that they're gonna stop believing you're me?" He smirked. "They're not so dumb as all that. Are you, boys?" He looked to the henchmen again, who were looking more confused than before. Ruby looked torn.

"Baby Face, which one is you?" she wailed.

"I'm Baby Face!" yelled the real McCoy with increasing impatience. Momentarily distracted by the uproar Micky had caused, his grip loosened on the drummer.

This, of course, was exactly what Micky wanted. He shoved Baby Face back against one of the gang members, grabbing the latter's falling gun in the process. Quickly he slipped it into his pocket and dashed inside. He would not have much time. Baby Face would set things straight before too long, and they would realize that the real mobster would not suddenly turn and run.

But it was better than the alternative. Micky had not wanted to stay outside and try to keep up the ruse. It likely would not have worked and then he would have died for certain, with no way out. This way, he still had a bit of a chance.

As he ran inside, frantically searching for a hiding place, something hard abruptly crashed down on his head. With a gasp of surprise and pain, he collapsed to the floor.

xxxx

The other Monkees, meanwhile, had managed to find out a bit of information about the moving van's journey, and they had tried to contact the police with the information that they had. Luckily for them, they managed to find the police captain who had originally wanted Micky to impersonate Baby Face in order to catch the gang and he was willing to do what he could to help. He felt it likely that Baby Face would come after Micky, and he was willing to believe that the Monkees truly had seen the picture of Henry and Linda with Baby Face, so he was running background checks on both of them.

The Monkees were grateful for his assistance, but they wanted to do more. And since they had learned that the van had gone into the Beverly Hills area, they decided that they would go there as well and look for it.

"I could kick myself," Davy said angrily as they got into the Monkeemobile and left the police station. "We shouldn't have let that van go off without making sure that Micky wasn't in it!" He crossed his arms, glaring ahead angrily at the road.

Mike sighed, shaking his head as he started the engine. "Hey, there wasn't much we could've done, man," he replied. "Henry would've just acted insulted or something, and he probably had Micky hidden away somewhere in there where we couldn't have found him even if we had looked." He waited for Peter to buckle his seat belt before driving away. "Thinking about the past isn't gonna help anyone, least of all Micky," he said firmly. "So come on, guys, let's just start thinking of how we're gonna save him when we do find him."

"Well, I've never even met this Baby Face person before," Davy frowned, "so I don't really know how to deal with him."

"He's sneaky and vicious," Peter interjected, shuddering as he thought of Micky having to encounter the mobster again. "And he's got a really bad temper. He almost choked Micky to death when Micky accidentally punched him! What will he do now that he realizes Micky really isn't his cousin and that Micky pretended to be him?"

He twisted the seat belt around in his hand, wishing that he knew how to help Micky. He felt so helpless! Maybe they would not even be able to get to him in time. He tried to tell himself that Micky was clever and resourceful, and that he would find a way to stay safe, but then he remembered Baby Face and his gang and started to worry again.

"He'll kill him for sure," Davy muttered.

Nearly the entire ride to Beverly Hills proceeded in this fashion, with the three Monkees discussing Baby Face's lack of character and his violent temper and the fact that Micky would not likely be able to stay safe for very long at all. Worried and sickened, they were unable to come up with any plans.

"We might not even meet Baby Face," Mike remarked as he maneuvered the car onto the turnoff for Beverly Hills. "We might meet Henry and Linda instead."

"Well," Davy vowed, "if we do, I'll give 'em a piece of my mind. The nerve of them—doing this to Micky after we were all supposed to be friends!"

He found himself getting more angry than usual. Perhaps it was because of the betrayal, or perhaps because of how he had trusted their neighbors. Maybe he thought that he should have done more after Micky had found the picture of the Evanses with Baby Face. Maybe it was a combination of all of the above. He only knew that he was extremely outraged about it all and he did not know if he would ever be able to forgive either of them—or himself—if Micky were dead.

"I don't understand how they could have done it," Peter objected, perking up as Mike began to travel up and down the spacious, rich streets in search of the van. "Maybe they were replaced by evil doubles!"

"Oh Peter," Davy sighed, shaking his head.

Mike listened to them idly, all the while concentrating on the road. "It's gotta be around here somewhere," he muttered, even though of course there was the possibility that it had not stopped in Beverly Hills at all. Maybe they had gone from there to somewhere else entirely. But if that were the case, then where would it be? Would they actually be going to Detroit after all? The local police chief had called the Detroit precincts to be on the alert and had given them the licence number, but he had thought it more likely that they would not go there, since they had mentioned it to the Monkees.

"It's too bad that we don't know if any of Baby Face's henchmen live in this area," Peter mused sadly.

Mike suddenly perked up. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "You just gave me a great idea, Pete!"

Peter blinked in surprise. "I did?"

Mike nodded. "Let's try to find out how many of the houses here are vacant because of the owners being away on vacation or something," he said. "Remember how Baby Face and his gang hid the diamonds they stole in the DeWitts' house? The DeWitts were abroad all that time, so the gang was able to easily get back inside when they wanted to get the goods."

Davy brightened. "Hey, that really is a great idea, Mike!" he declared. "It might help us narrow things down a lot. If the precinct here will cooperate with us, maybe it'll work!"

"Well, let's try it," Mike said. "We can check the phone book in the car to find the address of the local police station."

Peter immediately went about doing this. Soon they found the building's location and went there, but the police chief was not cooperative. After he spoke with the chief in the Monkees' area, however, he finally agreed to help and provided them with the desired list. Then the trio was able to set out looking for what might be the correct house.

xxxx

Consciousness slowly began to wash over Micky. At first everything was a blank. What was he doing lying on something hard and cold? Where were the others? Were they lying here too?

Gradually it came back to him. He was in the mansion where Baby Face and his gang were temporarily staying, and he had been trying to escape when something hard had struck him on the head. He groaned, pulling himself into a sitting position and reaching to rub at the offending spot.

"So, you _are_ still alive."

He looked up at the sound of Baby Face's voice. The gangster was leaning against a nearby wall, calmly drinking a small glass of wine. The henchmen were gathered on all sides, their guns pointing at Micky. The brunet gave a nervous gulp, gazing at all the unfriendly faces and wishing that he could be anywhere else.

"Yeah, that's me," Micky said now with a weak grin. "You can't kill me, I'll keep coming back."

Baby Face snorted. "We ain't even tried yet," he replied.

Micky felt ill. "Oh." He slumped back against the wall, suddenly noticing that he was wearing his own clothes instead of the business suit. Baby Face had grown tired of seeing Micky dressed exactly like him. Not that Micky blamed him for that. He would feel the same way if Baby Face tried to impersonate him.

"Well, not that I wanna die or anything like that," he said slowly, "but how long are you going to just sit here staring at me?" He was growing more and more nervous with each passing minute. Baby Face had most likely wanted that.

Baby Face downed the rest of the wine. "Not long," he smirked. "Just long enough to make you fidget."

The door opened and Ruby walked in. She surveyed the scene and then carefully walked over to her beau, her eyes showing how anxious she was herself. "Baby Face, I don't think you should do this," she pleaded, moving closer to him and reaching to grab his arm. "He really hasn't done anything that should make you wanna kill him. And you might get caught. . . . He has those friends, you know. If you kill him, they'll try to make sure that you go to prison and maybe even get the death penalty!"

Micky nodded firmly, grateful that someone in here was on his side. "That's right!" he agreed.

One of the lackeys shoved a gun in his face. "Shut up," he growled.

Micky swallowed hard, immediately growing quiet.

Baby Face growled too. "Relax, baby. I said that I wouldn't get caught." His eyes narrowed. "I hate leaving loose ends. That's why I'm gonna make sure there ain't any here." He gestured to Micky. "Get up."

Micky wanted to protest, but the gun being pointed at him made him reconsider. He eased himself to his feet. It was very likely that this was the end. He could not think of any more escape plans, and unless somehow the other three managed to find him in time, Baby Face was going to see to it that he would be shot to death. But Monkees had faced death before and won. Surely, surely something would happen to rescue him!

Without skipping a beat, all of Baby Face's lackeys advanced, forcing Micky against the wall.

Micky swallowed hard as he stared down the barrels of the guns. In spite of all of his desperate measures to escape from their clutches, his attempts had failed him in the end. There was nothing left.

Many thoughts were running through his mind all at once. He did not want to die; he was too young! He had his entire life ahead of him! He had songs to sing and play, zaniness to enact, girls to find and date! Getting shot just wasn't in his plans.

Would the others miss him? Knowing Peter, he would probably cry. Mike and Davy would be upset too, and probably they, too, would shed a few tears. They had all been living together for so long that now it was like they were a family.

"Goodbye, cruel world!" he moaned dramatically as he pressed himself against the wall and gripped at it with his hands. "I won't miss you, but I'll miss the ones I'm leaving behind!"

"Heh. That's cute. Any last words?" Baby Face sneered. His gun clicked as he held it up to point near Micky's heart. "Now you've got nowhere left to run."

Micky grinned weakly. "I guess you wouldn't believe that someone's behind you?"

Baby Face only laughed. "You've impersonated me for the last time," he hissed. "You're an embarrassment!" His wicked smile widened as he nodded to his henchmen. "I should've done this a long time ago." He opened his mouth to say "Fire!" but then suddenly changed his mind. "Ruby, go out of the room," he ordered. "You don't wanna watch this."

Micky shut his eyes tightly. "_I_ don't wanna watch this, either," he groaned.

Ruby's heart sank. Baby Face was going to go through with this, no matter what she said or how she pleaded. It was no use. "Okay," she said sadly as she turned and walked out of the room.

Even though she knew that Baby Face had killed others in the past, it seemed different to know that such a killing was actually going to go on right here, while she was on the premises as well. And she had the feeling that Baby Face would not be able to get away, as he believed he would be able to. Eventually, it seemed, the police managed to catch up with all of the criminals, and she was certain that Baby Face would not be an exception. She just wished that he would see reason and simply come away with her before it was too late.

Once she was gone, Baby Face nodded in approval. "Now, fire!" he ordered.

Their guns clicked. Bullets rained around Micky, taking out chunks of the wall and tearing at his clothes. Another one slammed into his chest and his eyes flew open at the shock. He fell back against the wall, then doubled over as he clapped his hands over the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, dripping to the floor, and he had to look away from it, sickened. This was not supposed to happen to a Monkee. They were supposed to always be able to come through their problems with flying colors!

But there would be no escape from this. Other bullets reached him as the assault continued. The illness he had felt earlier came back in full force. He would not be able to stay awake. With the extreme pain, he did not even want to try.

"I'll miss you guys," he said weakly, thoughts of the others going through his mind for the last time. Then the dizziness and pain overwhelmed him and he collapsed to the floor.

Baby Face smirked, lowering his gun as he walked over to the fallen boy. He cuffed at him with his shoe, checking for life, and then stepped back in satisfaction. "If the idiot ain't dead yet, he's gonna be soon," he crowed. "We should get outta here before his stupid friends show up. We've got a heist to do while we're in the area."

His henchmen concurred, and they left immediately.


	5. Path of Vengeance

It was not long after this that Mike, Davy, and Peter found their way to where Baby Face was pacing anxiously as he waited for his lackeys to repair the getaway car. It seemed that the tires had been low and someone had forgotten to check them. Now two of them were flat. Baby Face was seething, to say the least, and if any of his men had acted idiotically at that moment, it was likely that he would have been the mobster's next victim.

Peter perked up and ran over, hopeful, then stopped when he saw the cold glare. "You're not Micky, are you?" he frowned, fully taking in the scene. Baby Face truly did resemble Micky in almost every way, save in his eyes. They possessed none of the warmth and cheerfulness that Micky was known for. It had been eerie in the past to see both Baby Face and Micky side by side. As it was, since the moving van was gone and the getaway car was unfamiliar, the only way the Monkees had found this place had been by seeing Baby Face standing in front.

Baby Face continued to shoot daggers at Peter with his eyes. "No, I'm not that dummy, dummy," he retorted, but then gave a quiet smirk as he looked from Peter to Mike and Davy as they ran up as well. "Micky Dolenz is dead." He vaguely recognized Peter and Mike, but Davy was a mystery to him. Of course, he did not particularly care. He knew that they were all Micky's friends, and that was all he needed to know.

Davy stared. This was his first meeting with Baby Face, and it seemed bizarre to hear "Micky" saying that Micky was dead. It took a moment before he could actually process what he was being told. "You must be joking!" he cried in indignation when it registered. "Micky isn't either dead!" He swallowed hard, looking nervously at his friends. "Is he?"

"Oh, of course he's not!" Mike exclaimed, his dark eyes growing cold as he studied the ruthless gangster in front of them.

Peter's bottom lip quivered as tears threatened to overflow. "What did you do with him?" he demanded, stepping forward in a sudden show of bravery. It outraged him to see how pleased Baby Face was over his crime. Micky did not deserve to be the victim of such cruelty. Micky was a good, kind person who rightfully should be treated well by others. Peter had always done his best to be Micky's friend, and Micky had proven many times in the past that he cared about Peter as well, in spite of his tendency to tease.

Baby Face smirked more. "We shot him up," he answered. "He's in the house and down the hall, that way." He pointed in the direction of the porch. "He didn't stand a chance."

Without another word Peter turned and fled up the stairs and through the front door, despite Mike and Davy's protesting and their yells that it might be a trap. And if it truly was not, and was for real, then it would not do for a sensitive soul such as Peter to see a friend lying dead.

Mike turned back to look at Baby Face, disgust and outrage written across his features. "Now look what you've done!" he cried. "Let me tell you something, if Micky really is . . . well, _dead,_ you're going to be in a lot of trouble. A _lot_ of trouble! We'll take you to court and throw the book at you!" He stopped and looked up as a book flew out of nowhere and nearly struck Baby Face before he stepped out of the way.

Baby Face looked at it in disbelief. "What's this?" he yelled.

"That's the book we're gonna throw at you!" Davy snapped. "Come on, Mike, we've gotta catch up with Peter!" With that he brushed past Baby Face and disappeared into the house as well.

Mike gave a firm nod. "You just remember that!" he said to Baby Face before turning to follow Davy.

He was halfway down a long corridor when Peter gave a cry of dismay up ahead. Instantly Mike's eyes widened and he paled. "Peter?" he called. His stomach started to knot. "Davy? Hey, where are you?" Did he dare call for Micky? No, that was probably a bad idea. Peter's cry could have very well come about because of finding Micky.

"Mike!" Davy responded up ahead. "I'm over here! Where's Peter?" There was the sound of soft bumping against the wall. "It's so dark in here I can't see anything! Isn't there a light switch?" Then there was a click and a soft glow flooded the hallway. "Nevermind."

Now Mike was able to catch up with Davy. Together they raced down the remainder of the corridor, calling for Peter and fearing the worst. Perhaps Baby Face had indeed had another henchman stashed somewhere who had jumped Peter and hurt him as well. Mike would not put it past the cold-hearted criminal.

But then they finally came to the end of the hall and reached a room. As they looked in, they both stared in disbelief and horror. Peter was kneeling on the floor in tears, cradling Micky's body in his arms. Blood was on the floor around them, covering Peter's hands, and coming from several wounds in Micky's body. Micky's eyes were closed and there was an expression of pain on his face.

Peter trembled, looking up at Mike and Davy with heartbroken eyes. "He's dead," he whispered amid the sobs. "Micky's dead!"

Davy gazed in alarm, not wanting to believe it. He _couldn't_ believe it. This was what he had feared would happen. Micky certainly did look dead, and all the blood was making Davy feel dizzy. Trying to push back his own horrified feelings, he made his way over to Peter and knelt down beside him. Words would not come, so he instead reached out and laid a hand on Peter's shoulder, gripping tightly.

Mike also came over, but instead of attempting to offer some sort of comfort, he surveyed the scene and bent down near Micky's body. "Did you check to make sure?" he asked, grabbing for Micky's wrist to search for a pulse. He strained to concentrate, frustrated and discouraged when he could not determine whether he was truly feeling a soft throbbing or if it were only in his imagination.

"Check?" Peter echoed, looking as though Mike was speaking a foreign language. He swallowed hard. "I didn't check," he admitted. "I don't know. . . . I guess I was too upset. . . ."

He shuddered, growing hysterical again. How could something such as this have happened? Baby Face should not have been able to triumph! And yet it certainly looked as though he had. Micky felt so cold and still as his blood ran over Peter's hands. There was no telling how long he had been lying there. It could have been moments or it could have been hours, but if he had been killed instantly, it would not truly matter.

He looked over at Mike and was surprised to see the Texan perk up. "Michael?" he asked with uncertainty.

Mike looked up, his eyes urgent. "Micky's still alive," he reported. "He's hurt real bad, but he's not dead yet—and we've gotta make sure it stays that way." He looked from Peter to Davy as their expressions brightened. "We have to find a phone and call 911!" None of them owned a cellphone. They were much too expensive, and it was hard enough trying to make ends meet as it was.

"There should be a phone in the house somewhere!" Davy declared, hurrying to get up and look.

He prayed that when he found it, it would be in service.

xxxx

As it turned out, they did manage to find a working phone and to make the needed call. They also called the police, but by the time a squad car arrived, Baby Face and his gang had managed to get the car working and escape. The Monkees were frustrated and angry about that, but they would have to let him go for the time being. The most important thing was to get help for Micky. The paramedics did not seem to have much hope for their friend's survival, but Mike knew that they had to keep believing in him. Micky would not give up easily.

At the hospital all of them paced in nervousness, unable to sit still. Mike told them that they needed to sit down and try to be calm, but it was obvious from his eyes that he was not the least bit calm. That in turn only made Davy and Peter all the more anxious and concerned and caused them to pace about more than ever.

"Oh this is ridiculous!" Mike cried after several moments of this. "Micky's gonna be okay." He stopped in the middle of the floor, crossing his arms and trying to force himself to believe what he was saying.

"Sure he will be!" Davy agreed. "I mean . . . just because he was all shot up by that gangster doesn't mean he won't make it." But he was speaking with a heavy heart. He was afraid that Micky simply would not be able to pull through.

Peter laid his head on Mike's shoulder, the tears freely flowing. "Micky can't die!" he wailed.

"He won't!" Mike responded, but the tears were coming to his own eyes as well.

Davy wandered over now, also sniffling as he blinked back tears. Soon he laid his head against Mike's other shoulder and all three of them dissolved into sobs.

"Micky probably wouldn't want us to cry over him," the British Monkee remarked after a moment.

"He'd tell us it was going to be okay," Peter agreed.

Mike ran a hand over his eyes. "Then why can't we stop bawling already?" he exclaimed.

"I dunno," Davy said in a muffled voice.

Mike shook his head. At times like this he felt so extremely helpless. There was nothing more that he could do for Micky, and he could not find a way to comfort Davy and Peter. They looked to him for advice and guidance, but he could do nothing. He wished that there was someone who could offer comfort to him as well as to the others. But the only one who could really comfort them now was Micky.

And God. Mike said another silent prayer for their poor friend. He had been praying ever since this calamity had started with Micky's disappearance earlier that evening. He was afraid that by now he was surely wearying the Almighty with his pleas, but he was frantic.

He looked up with a start as the doctor approached. Immediately he was gripped with both hope and dread at the same time. "Well?" he demanded.

Davy and Peter looked up as well. "Is he going to make it?" they both cried at once.

The doctor sighed, removing his glasses and looking exhausted. "It's still hard to say," he admitted. "He was shot at least four times—twice in the chest and once each in his right shoulder and his left arm. In addition to the immense trauma he's suffered, he lost a lot of blood and he has a mild concussion from where he was apparently hit over the head."

Davy shook his head. "Poor Micky," he said softly.

Peter was horrified, and it showed in his eyes. "But he has to be okay!" he cried. "He has to be!"

The doctor replaced his glasses. "Well," he said slowly, "he does have a few things in his favor. He's young and healthy, none of the bullets seem to have pierced anything vital, and he has the three of you who want him to recover." He tried to give a faint smile. "I think, for all of your sakes, he'll try to keep fighting."

Mike nodded slowly, trying to force himself to calm down. What the doctor said was true, but it did not change the worry he felt. "Can we see him?" he asked now.

"Yes, of course." The doctor turned to head down the hall and the trio quickly followed him. "The normal rules are only two visitors to a room at a time," the physician continued, "but for you, I'm going to make an exception. I can see that you're all very close, and it wouldn't be fair for one of you to have to stay outside while the other two go in. Besides, I think it will help him more if all of you are there."

"Thank you," Mike said quietly as they arrived at the door and the doctor opened it. "Thank you very much."

The doctor nodded and held the door open for them as they went in, then shut it behind them.

Mike was the first one to enter. He surveyed Micky's lifeless body sadly, feeling a pang in his heart at seeing a close friend—a family member—lying so near to death. Micky's straight brown hair was in disarray, his skin was pale, and he breathed very slowly and with a rasping tone.

"Man, this is awful," Mike murmured as he watched. "We can't let Baby Face and his gang get away with this."

"But what can we do?" Davy asked. It was eerie to see Micky so still. The British Monkee bit his lip and shuddered slightly.

Peter was the most obviously affected. When he saw Micky, his eyes widened as tears filled them and threatened to spill over. "Micky?" he asked, immediately going to the bedside and gripping Micky's uninjured shoulder. Of course there was not a response, and Peter gloomily sank onto a chair.

Davy laid a hand on Peter's shoulder in a comforting way. "If we could find Henry and Linda, maybe they could tell us something," he suggested.

"We still don't even have a way to connect them with any of this!" Mike said bitterly. "They probably skipped out with Baby Face and the others."

And so they sat in silence, trying every now and then to talk to Micky. But their attempts were in vain and all of them were quite disconsolate. If only Baby Face had not been able to do this. If only Henry and Linda had not betrayed them. If only they had done more after finding that picture. They had not put enough stock in it, in spite of all their worrying over what would happen after they had found it.

And yet all of the if onlys and all of the wishing would not change what was. And what was, was that Micky was quiet and ill, and might never wake up again.

xxxx

Baby Face and his gang were quite far away by now, just as Mike had feared. They had escaped in the dark car and were cruising the streets of the neighborhood in which they were going to perform their heist.

Henry and Linda, their task completed, had already left with the moving van. Baby Face did not expect them to be back. He had known that they had not wanted to take part in the scheme, and that they had wished to depart as soon as the dreadful matter was over, and he had agreed to let them go. After all, if he needed them again, he knew that he could easily find where they were taking up residence. Smirking to himself, he reached for a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass from a cooler at his feet.

Ruby, who was sitting next to him, watched with a nervous, sinking feeling. She had not asked him about what had happened to Micky, for she was certain that she already knew. Baby Face was quite unmerciful in such cases, and he had been growing increasingly angry at Micky during the mad chase he had led everyone on across the property. Finding out that Micky had been impersonating him again had been the straw that had broken the camel's back.

"He's dead, isn't he," she said quietly, watching her beau pouring himself a drink.

Baby Face sneered. "Yeah, he's dead," he answered as he raised the glass to his lips. After gulping down half the contents at once, he leaned back and looked satisfied. "We didn't shoot him as full of holes as we could've done, but what we did sufficed. And I think we spooked him a lot right before he croaked." Now, after they committed this latest heist, they would go into hiding for a while as he searched for Tony and the rest of the traitorous gang. He still meant to see them suffer the same as Micky had done.

Ruby sighed, half to herself. It was not a secret that she was unhappy with the events of the evening, and Baby Face pointedly ignored her as he finished the rest of his drink. And so Ruby decided to let the matter drop. Baby Face was certain that he would not be caught, and it was useless to protest that perhaps he should be more careful. He was sure that he was being as careful as he could possibly be while eliminating all of his enemies. Ruby, however, felt that one could never be very careful while engaged in attempting to commit multiple murders.

She looked up as she felt the car come to a halt. They had parked in front of a large, white manor, not extremely unlike the one that they had came from.

Baby Face was smiling to himself, still enjoying the evening and its latest adventure. Calmly he set down the glass and opened the car door. "This is it, baby," he uttered as he stepped out, his eyes narrowed as he looked ahead at the abode. "This is going to be the first big heist I've pulled since I got this new gang together. And it'd better be profitable or somebody's gonna regret it." He said this last point while pointedly looking back at his lackeys. Some of them swallowed and looked nervous, while others simply looked back with eyes of steel.

"What should I do, Baby Face?" Ruby asked, looking up at him through the open car door.

"Stay with the car, as usual, and let me know if something suspicious happens," Baby Face returned. "If somebody gets wind of what's up and calls the cops, we've gotta have time to get away. After all, I just busted out of the rock and I'm not gonna go back."

Ruby nodded as the nervousness came over her again. "Okay, Baby Face," she agreed softly.

She watched as Baby Face nodded in approval and started to walk off, flanked by his henchmen. Then she leaned back against the seat, idly fingering her cellphone as she worried over what might happen.

Even though she had heard Micky's friends come for him earlier and talk with Baby Face, there was not any way that the killing could actually be connected to him. It would be their word against his. But Ruby still worried. Baby Face should not have murdered the musician. The crime would catch up with him eventually.

The house seemed quiet enough as the gangsters approached, but Baby Face knew better than to think that was the end of it. The residents were supposed to be gone over the weekend, but there were likely servants somewhere on the premises. And though Baby Face would prefer not to spill more blood tonight, he would do it if it became necessary.

xxxx

Peter leaned forward, sadly watching Micky's still body. The brunet drummer was lying in the hospital bed while machines beeped and whirred around him. The only sign of life was the slow rise and fall of his chest as he quietly breathed. Would he ever wake up?

It scared Peter to see Micky so quiet. Micky was supposed to be goofy and cheerful, not injured so badly that he was barely alive. Peter would even welcome one of Micky's blatantly sarcastic remarks, just to know that he would be alright. Micky was a good friend, and Peter felt just as close to him as he did to the other two Monkees.

He blinked back the tears in his eyes. He did not want to be here alone with Micky, feeling so helpless. Both Mike and Davy had been hesitant to leave Peter behind, knowing how much his sensitive heart was breaking. Despite that, Peter had unselfishly encouraged Mike and Davy to go out as the Monkeemen to try to stop Baby Face and his gang. After all, he could not be allowed to get away with this atrocity!

He gazed blankly at Micky's pale complexion before finally speaking in a soft, low voice. "Micky?" he said with hesitance, though he was not expecting an answer. When the other young man continued to remain still, Peter sighed and continued. "I don't know if you can hear me, but . . . I just need someone to talk to right now." He looked down at his hands. "And they say that people can hear things going on around them, even when they're unconscious, so I was just hoping. . . ." He shook his head as he trailed off.

"I really want you to be okay," he said after a moment of silence. "We've been through a lot together and you've always tried to help me no matter what. You, and Mike, and Davy . . . you're all the best friends l've ever had." The lump came back into his throat and he struggled to force it down. "This . . . this just isn't supposed to happen to one of us!"

He leaned forward on the nightstand as he covered his eyes with his hand. After a moment he looked back up again, a new determination showing in his eyes despite the immense sorrow he was still feeing.

"Well . . . whether you hear me or not, I know you're not going to give up," he decided. "I don't think I've ever seen you give up at anything you tried to do. And I guess Mike would probably say that if you . . . die, you'll be letting Baby Face win. And . . . well, we can't have that." He paused again, the sound of the beeping machines filling the room. "I know you wouldn't want it, either. . . ." His shoulders slumped and he looked down once more. "Just . . . please, Micky, try to stay here!" he begged softly. When there was still no reply, Peter let the tears fall.

He did not know how long he was there, or how long Micky was unconscious, but at one point, out of nowhere a hand came to rest on his shoulder. When he started in complete shock and confusion, Micky weakly said, "Hey, it's okay, Pete."

Immediately the blond Monkee perked up. Filled with new hope he looked over at Micky, hardly daring to believe. His friend was awake, if only barely. Micky was giving a vague smile, his eyes showing that he was still in a lot of pain. Yet he was alive, and happy to be. Peter brightened. Everything was going to be alright. It had to be.


	6. Wanted Dead or Alive

Mike and Davy, dressed as Monkeemen, were having very little success finding any trace of Baby Face or his men. Of course they had expected that it would not be easy, but they were getting frustrated. But then, as they were driving down the highway in the Monkeemobile, Davy caught sight of something in the side-view mirror.

"Mike! There's a van behind us!" he burst out.

"There is?" Mike gasped. He looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, a moving van was trying to keep pace with them. The license plate identified it as the Evanses'.

"It's the one, Mike!" Davy exclaimed. "They're following us!"

Mike's eyes narrowed. "Haven't they caused us enough trouble?" he muttered, sharply turning around a corner. The moving van followed, its tires screeching on the asphalt as it went. Convinced that they were, indeed, being followed, Mike maneuvered the car to the side of the road. He parked and then climbed out, slamming the door shut behind him as he strode up to the van with purpose. Davy hastened after him, adjusting the wide rimmed glasses as he did so.

Mike's blood boiled once he saw Henry and Linda stepping to the ground, but he tried to keep his anger in check. "Well," he said smoothly, his black cape whipping out from behind him, "fancy meeting you two here."

"Yeah!" Davy put in, crossing his arms. "What happened to being on your way to Detroit?"

Linda looked down, guilt filling her eyes. "I'm sorry, boys," she said softly, her voice cracking with regret. "I never wanted this to happen." She could not even bear to face Mike and Davy, knowing that Micky had been killed by Baby Face—and that it had been she and Henry who had made certain that Micky was delivered to him.

Henry looked at them with cold eyes that held none of the friendliness that they had once had. "This is just the way it had to be," he put in, tightly twisting a tie-dyed bandanna around in his hands. "You don't understand . . . Baby Face would've killed us if we'd backed out."

"So you figured that Micky had to die?" Mike answered darkly. "Come on, man, you could've done something. You could've gone to the police or the FBI and they could've put you in the Witness Protection Program. . . . You didn't have to do Baby Face's dirty work!"

Perhaps, he reflected in a part of his mind, he should have been more understanding. After all, the Monkees themselves had been forced to commit a robbery once, in order to save Peter's life. But then again, they had tried desperately to contact the police about the situation. And in any case, a robbery was not anywhere near as serious as being an accessory to murder. They could have never done such a thing, and it disgusted Mike that the Evanses had.

"I didn't want to be a part of this!" Linda cried, trying in vain to wipe her eyes. "I pleaded with Henry right up to the end not to do it. . . ."

"You could've warned us somehow!" Davy shot back. "Or at least tried! Instead you just stayed quiet and let him take Micky to that mobster! And that's just as bad as having actually supported Henry in doing it!"

Linda continued to look at the ground, disheartened. "Is he really dead?" she whispered finally.

"As if we'd tell you," Mike growled. Henry, at least, might go back to Baby Face and report that the job had not quite been completed. And then the criminal might come back to try again. It would be much better for them to believe that Micky truly had perished.

And anyway, there was still a great chance that he would. Mike just hoped desperately that if it had to happen, it would not come to pass while Peter alone was with Micky. Mike did not know how Peter would handle something like that, and he did not want to find out.

"He's dead," Henry said with a curt nod. "Baby Face called me up after they did it." He looked to Linda. "What's done is done."

"Maybe so." Mike removed his glasses and coldly glared at them both. "But why were you following us? Did Baby Face tell you to come get the rest of us, just in case we could actually do something about getting him locked up?" It would not surprise him, not after what had already happened. It was possible that the gangster would have second thoughts about letting the other Monkees go free, and it was probable that Henry would agree to Baby Face's orders if that was the case. Mike had lost all respect for their former neighbor.

But Henry shook his head. "Linda was driving," he replied. "She wanted to tell you she was sorry, and to warn you that Baby Face really might decide to bump all of you off." He turned to go back to the truck. "We're splitting for real now. You won't hear from us again, and neither will Baby Face and his mob."

"It's a little late for that decision, isn't it?" Davy snapped. "You can't just walk away from the Mob; they always find you." He wanted to add that sorry would not fix anything, but he forced himself to bite his tongue. In spite of himself, he did feel a certain pity for Linda now that he saw how upset she was over the matter. But he did not want to show his feelings. She had not actually tried to do anything to stop Henry, and Davy wanted to make certain that she knew of his displeasure and anger because of that.

"If you were gonna walk away, you should have done it before you betrayed us—and especially Micky," Mike agreed. "I don't think there's anything more that we want to hear from you." He was about to turn and leave as well, but then he stopped as something occurred to him. "Well, unless you can tell us where Baby Face is right now," he said then.

Both Linda and Henry stared at them, realizing what their plan was.

Henry's eyes narrowed. "I can't tell you," he said.

"Can't—or won't?" Mike returned. Henry was silent.

"It's too dangerous," Linda exclaimed. "You can't possibly think of going after him, not after what he did to Micky!"

"That's exactly why we're going after him," Mike said. "We're not going to let him get away with it!"

Linda shook her head. "No. Oh no, please don't!" she implored.

Suddenly it dawned on her that there were only two Monkees. "Where's Peter?" she asked. Had he been hurt too?

"It's not as if you really want to know," Davy retorted, walking back to the Monkeemobile and climbing in. He did not want them to get off the hook, especially Henry, and he had already decided that once he and Mike were on the road again, they would call the police and mention their encounter. The Evanses had both been accessories to attempted murder and they deserved to end up in prison to pay for their crimes. And knowing Mike, he felt even stronger about the subject than Davy did.

The Texan quickly joined his friend in the car and started the engine, watching through the rear-view mirror as the Evanses slowly went back to their van. "They've gotta be crazy if they think we're just going to let them get away," he muttered.

Davy sighed, leaning on the passenger door as they drove away. "I do feel kinda sorry for Linda," he remarked. "She was just sort of thrown into this and didn't want to be. But I know that's not any excuse. She should have tried harder to stop Henry from what he was doing." He gazed ahead, the wind tousling his dark brown bangs as the Monkeemobile gained speed.

"She should have, but she didn't, and neither one of them should get off scot-free," Mike declared. "Tell me when you see a phone booth. Then we'll pull over and I'll call the police."

"Okay." Davy's spirits dropped even further. "I wonder how Micky's doing," he murmured then, remembering how pale and cold Micky had looked when he and Mike had last seen him.

Mike shook his head. "It's hard to say." He did not voice what they were both wondering—if Micky had passed on and how Peter would ever deal with that.

xxxx

As it turned out, the police were not called to the scene of the crime until Baby Face and his gang were practically finished with taking everything of value. The guards and the servants had all been rendered unconscious, but one of them had woken up before the others and had managed to sneak to a telephone and place the call to the local precinct. The officers wisely kept their sirens off as they approached the mansion, but Ruby spotted the familiar black-and-white cars and hurried inside to warn Baby Face.

The crime lord was just closing the last jewelry box and placing it in the suitcase he had brought when Ruby entered. He looked up with a start. "What's goin' on?" he demanded. "You were supposed to wait in the car."

"Baby Face, the police are outside!" Ruby exclaimed, pointing in the direction of the hall.

Cursing to himself, Baby Face turned off the lights and looked out the window, studying the yard for the best escape route. The best way out, he determined as he and Ruby continued to converse, was to go through a back door and creep silently over the grounds until the getaway car was reached. Ruby had made certain that the driver—another gang member—had driven it into the shadows as she had gone inside the house, not wanting the police to stumble across it.

"There's not going to be any more killing tonight, is there, Baby Face?" Ruby pleaded as they hurried down the hall and the stairs that led to the kitchen. The other gang members trooped after them.

Baby Face growled. "There might be," he answered, "if some dope gets in the way. 'Course, now that Steve Blauner's not around, hopefully we won't have trouble running down cops when we're trying to peal off. That kinda thing just makes it worse."

Ruby shuddered. "I mean deliberate killing," she said, but before Baby Face could reply they burst into the kitchen—right into the range of a cook ready and waiting with a rolling pin as a weapon. One of the henchmen struck out and shot him point-blank as they ran past, figuring that there was not any time to do otherwise with such an obstacle. Baby Face, however, was not pleased.

"You idiot!" he snapped, backhanding the lackey as they made their way into the backyard. "Did you already forget what I said about not killing unnecessarily? You're opening Pandora's Box! The cops probably heard that shot and'll come right to where we are!"

Indeed, footsteps were swiftly approaching the kitchen area. Baby Face darted around a large hedge, hiding among the foliage as he groped for his own gun. He had the silencer fixed on his, and if his location were discovered he would not hesitate to do away with whatever hapless individual stumbled upon it.

"Here!" he said suddenly, thrusting the suitcase of jewelry at Ruby. "Take this and go to the car. I'll be right behind you."

Ruby bit her lip, hesitating only briefly before doing as she was told. She generally was not involved in Baby Face's escapades, as he tended to not want her or other women around at those times, but whenever she did get involved it seemed that there was always something wild and dangerous happening. It was most likely just routine for Baby Face, but for her it was not. How much of the excitement would she be able to take? She was always so worried about him.

It was only a moment after she and the gang members had gotten safely into the car that Baby Face came as well, firing his gun off at anyone foolish enough to try to stop him. Killing may not have been the original plan, but if Baby Face felt that it was necessary (or, of course, if he was feeling vindictive) he would go at it with fury. Two officers went down as Ruby's beau ran to the vehicle, and then she gasped as he suddenly pitched forward. Had he been shot? Unconsciously she tightly gripped the valise she was holding, new fear for his life coming over her.

But then the door flew open and Baby Face stumbled in, using his left hand to fumble uselessly to shut it behind him. His hat was askew, his hair was in complete disarray, and blood was visible, coming from a wound in his shoulder. He tried to ignore it. "Get us out of here!" he yelled at the driver. Pain flickered in his eyes.

"Baby Face, you're hurt!" Ruby said in horror. It was, perhaps, some sort of poetic justice—he had shot Micky and now he had been shot himself. But unlike Micky, Baby Face was not mortally injured. He would be able to recover quite easily. At least, Ruby hoped that he would be able to. Quickly she tore off part of her dress and pressed it against the wound as the car practically soared around a corner.

"It's nothing," he growled, though he let her try to help him. "It's just a flesh wound."

"But Boss," exclaimed one of the henchmen, "the bullet went clean through your shoulder!"

"All the better," Baby Face retorted. "Now we don't have to go to the trouble of getting a crooked doc to dig it out, or to try to do it ourselves." He leaned back in the seat, ignoring the alarmed and revolted looks plastered across most of his lackeys' faces. The thought did not sicken him in the least, but it was an inconvenience that he was glad to not have to worry about. Still, it would take time for his shoulder to heal. That annoyed him, but he had been planning that they would go undercover anyway, so he supposed that it would all work out for the best.

There was silence for the next few moments as the driver swerved and spun about and tried to get the police off of their tail. Baby Face tried to settle back and relax, but every time he tried he found himself being jostled about. That, of course, put more pain on his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and tried to block the pain out of his mind. This was not the first time he had been injured during a caper, though it was the first time that he had received this particular kind of ailment. He hoped that he would not be out of commission for an extremely long time. That simply would not do.

Ruby, meanwhile, continued to attempt to stop the bleeding, but the constant jarring of the car made it difficult, and she worried that the motion was causing her to press harder than she should. If Baby Face lost too much blood, then the "flesh wound" would become quite a serious problem. It would not be easy to find a hospital that would take him in without reporting to the police, but if he ended up requiring a blood transfusion then he would need to go somewhere. For his sake, she hoped that it would not come to that.

xxxx

Mike and Davy did not catch Baby Face that night, as they had hoped to do. And so, after pondering over their meeting with the Evanses and failing to locate the gangster, and after changing back into their normal clothes in defeat, they finally decided to head back to the hospital.

As they parked the car and headed for the door, at least three ambulances arrived and went to the Emergency entrance. Paramedics rushed about, wheeling the injured inside on gurneys, while police officers followed. The two Monkees stared.

"What on earth could've happened?" Davy cried as they went to the main entrance.

"I don't know," Mike frowned, an idea beginning to occur to him, "unless Baby Face struck again." And that seemed quite likely. After all, the heist he had been going to do would have been in the area, and this hospital would probably be the closest one to the site.

"Baby Face?" Davy echoed. Mike was likely right. Frustration burned all the more because of not being able to have captured the villain. Now even more people had been hurt, and maybe a lot of them would be at death's door as Micky was.

He felt a certain relief that he and Mike were not still dressed as the Monkeemen. Right now, he did not feel like a superhero at all.

One of the police officers in the reception area started, having overheard the duo's conversation as they had walked in. "You know about Baby Face?" he asked, looking them up and down and probably wondering why a couple of "long-haired weirdos" would know anything about such a vicious mobster's exploits.

Davy blinked, looking over at him. "Yeah, that's right," he confirmed. "One of our friends was brutally attacked by the guy."

The policeman shook his head, instantly sympathizing. "We were chasing him tonight," he said. "He was lifting the Boyers' silver, jewelry, and some small but expensive electronics." His voice and eyes turned bitter. "He shot down a house servant and at least two officers in the process." Baby Face himself actually had not shot the servant, as we know, but the police officer assumed that it was naturally the case.

"Well, we're really sorry, man," Mike instantly replied, speaking for both him and Davy. Then he paused, considering what he wanted to ask but figuring that he already knew the answer. "So Baby Face got away then?"

The officer growled. "Did he get away?" he repeated. "Oh yeah, he got away—but not before I shot him clean through the shoulder." Mike thought that he could hear him mutter, "I wish it'd been his heart," but he was not sure.

Davy bit his lip. "Won't he have to go to a hospital somewhere?" he asked. But as soon as he said it, he realized that it probably would not come to pass. Someone as sneaky and cold-hearted as Baby Face Morales would likely find some other way. Probably, Davy decided, the gangster would treat the wound himself—or have his lackeys do it.

"We've thought of that," the policeman answered as he started to head for the waiting room. "There's men posted in all the nearby hospitals, but it's not likely that he'll try to get into one."

Then he paused and looked back. "Hey, I hope your friend will be alright," he said quietly. He had seen many people fall because of Baby Face and others who were just like him, and he had become utterly disgusted with the mobsters' lack of morals. He had made it his own personal goal to bring Baby Face to justice, and it angered him that he had come so close tonight but had still failed—and that four people, at least, had paid for it.

Mike nodded. "So do we," he answered.

"Yeah," Davy agreed, then added, "We hope the same for those officers and that servant."

Then they went their separate ways, to worry about their various loved ones and friends.

xxxx

When Mike and Davy found Micky's room and went inside, it did not appear as though there had been any change. Micky was still lying pale and cold and still, the machines beeping monotonously in the background, and Peter was still keeping his vigil. But as Davy drew closer, his eyes widened. Peter seemed very much at peace compared with the worried state he had been in earlier.

"Hey, Peter," the British Monkee said in surprise, "are you alright?"

Peter smiled up at him. "I'm just fine," he proclaimed, "and Micky's going to be alright too."

Mike did a doubletake. "He is?" His gaze drifted to Micky's unconscious form, then back to Peter. "Well . . . that's great and all, Shotgun, but how do you know that?" Had Peter become so worried and distraught that he had made himself believe that everything would be fine, whether it actually would be or not?

"He woke up and told me," Peter explained, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

Both Mike and Davy blinked, staring at him. "He . . . told you?" Mike repeated slowly. It did not seem like Micky was in any condition to be able to wake up and tell Peter anything.

"That's right, he sure did," Peter replied. "So there's no need for us to worry anymore." In his childlike mind, the matter was resolved. If Micky was well enough to regain consciousness and speak to him—albeit only briefly—then Peter was absolutely certain that Micky would continue to heal.

"That's . . . good, then," Davy said, also speaking with hesitance. He sat down by the blond Monkee and studied him carefully. It was obvious that Peter truly believed Micky had spoken to him, and perhaps he even had. Davy wanted to believe. He wanted it very much, but he simply did not know if it was plausible to have happened considering Micky's condition. "When was this, Peter?" he wanted to know.

Peter scratched his head as he tried to remember. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I haven't really been keeping track of time. But it was a while ago." He smiled again. "Micky told me it would be okay, and then he went back to sleep. I went and got the nurse to check on him then."

"Oh, you did, huh?" Mike said, a bit surprised at Peter's quick thinking. "What did she say?"

Now Peter's expression became confused. "She said that he wasn't any different than before and that he couldn't have woken up and told me anything," he reported, "but I know he did. I know it!" He looked at Mike and Davy, a certain desperation in his brown eyes. "You guys believe me, don't you?" he pleaded in urgency. He was often considered to be naive or simple-minded by the others, and he was afraid that they would not believe him now, but he was positive that this had truly happened. Micky had spoken to him! It was not a fantasy or a dream.

Davy bit his lip, not sure what to do. If the nurse was certain that Micky was not well enough to come to, then it did not seem likely that he had done so. But, not wanting to create tension, Davy finally patted Peter on the shoulder. "Of course we believe you, Peter," he said. It was not a complete lie; he certainly believed that Peter believed it.

Peter broke into a dimpled smile.

Over his shoulder, Davy exchanged a look with Mike that Peter did not see. Did Mike believe that what Peter said was true?

Mike's look was also a question. He was not certain what to believe, though he understood—as did Davy—that Peter was sincere. It was highly possible that Peter had fabricated the story, unknowingly, after having a realistic dream in which Micky had woken up.

But doctors and nurses did not know everything. It was also possible that things had happened just as Peter had said. Maybe it was a sign of the miracle for which he had been praying. For now, he would hope that were so.


	7. Casino Nights

The casino was almost deserted that night. Only a few souls remained—those who were either extremely lucky, foolish, or crooked. A few were playing the slots. Several others were still at the craps and roulette tables.

But most were at the poker game, either participating or watching. This round was highly intriguing to them, as the same four had been playing for hours, each time raising the stakes a bit more. By this time, two of the players had been forced to drop out, and it seemed that one of those remaining was about to lose as well.

The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead as these two gamblers stared hard at first the cards and then each other. At last one of them laid his hand down. It was a very good hand, and those observing were impressed. No doubt he would win. He had been the winner against every other opponent there.

But this opponent did not seem concerned. He watched stone-faced before setting his cards on the table and calmly announcing what he had. And instantly everyone there knew that he was the winner instead.

The former winner glared, cursing as he got to his feet. "There has to be some mistake!" he cried. "You cheated, didn't you? Everyone does it, but I won't lose because of a cheater!" His voice boomed out as he made his accusations.

The current winner looked up at him coldly and with a dead calm. "I don't cheat," he replied, shuffling his cards together. "And if you do, you deserved this. Face it, you lost and now you're a washed-up has-been, just like Baby Face Morales."

His opponent slammed his hand down viciously on the table. "Just like Baby Face Morales, huh?" he snapped, his eyes flashing with dark amusement over something that he knew which the other man did not. "Baby Face was on a rampage tonight, you know. The guy killed at least four people and made off with the Boyer stash. If I'm not mistaken, you've had your eye on that for some time now." He began to smirk in satisfaction, especially when he saw the look of anger coming across the features of the winner. "Face it, he's not a has-been, Tony. He's still as successful as he ever was, and moreso than you've been at anything other than poker."

Tony Ferano's eyes flashed. Though he had managed to stay calm and collected during the game, being compared to his former associate was not something he relished at all. In fact, he downright despised it. "The guy waves a gun around and thinks he's a big shot," he muttered. "But not all of us have the kind of short temper he does. People are afraid of him instead of respecting him, the way they respect our gang."

Tony made it a point to not kill unless necessary, and though he could be rough with his enemies, he did not lash out at random people with murderous fury the way Baby Face did. He did, however, wish that he could eliminate Baby Face once and for all. Some part of him still lived in the fear of the crime lord returning again and wanting to take over the gang. And if that happened, Baby Face was certain to know of Tony's insubordinations. He would make sure to retaliate when Tony least expected it.

Tony feared Baby Face's temper to a certain extent. When he had first entered the mob he had not cared, but as time had gone on and he had seen just how violent the embittered criminal could get, his opinion had changed. The other members of the gang were not exempt from his fury, and Tony himself had been a recipient more times than he cared to remember. Once he had been beaten nearly to death, and for something he had not done at that. He told himself that he was not afraid, and yet he knew in his heart that he was.

Could it be that part of the reason was because he saw in Baby Face something that also existed in his own heart? The hatred, the anger, the bitterness that drove Baby Face to lash out at people was something that Tony himself had also felt for many years. He had taught himself not to unleash it, as he knew what a destructive force it could be, but that did not change that it was still there. He and Baby Face were more alike than Tony wanted to acknowledge—and that, more than anything else, was what frightened him.

"Hey!" Vince exclaimed suddenly. "I heard about that heist on the radio, right before your game started. They said that Baby Face got himself shot by the cop who was leading the chase."

Tony perked up at this, raising an eyebrow. "He did, huh?" He could not control the sense of fulfillment that he felt at this news. It sounded very much like poetic justice to him. Part of him wished that it would have been a fatal shot. Then the thorn in his side would be successfully removed. But knowing Baby Face, he would not go down that easily, and so Vince's reply was not a surprise.

"The cop said that he only got him in the shoulder, and that he got away." The heavyset man crossed his arms, wondering what Tony would do with this information. He could already see the wheels turning in his friend's head.

Slowly Tony set the cards down on the table as he eased himself out of the chair. "He'll have to go into hiding for a while," he mused. "Even if he doesn't think he was hurt that bad, it won't do to have one of his arms virtually useless."

Vince gulped. "You're not thinking of doing what I think you're thinking about doing, are you, Tony?" he asked.

"Well, why not?" Tony grunted. "It has to be done sometime."

His poker opponent stared. "Just because he's injured, he's not helpless," he exclaimed.

Tony glared at him. "I know that," he snapped. "And I know we'll have to be careful. But this is the perfect time to make sure he gets bumped off." He looked around at the other members of his gang. "Are you with me?"

Vince gulped, but then nodded. Tony was the current leader, after all, and in general Vince liked him much better than Baby Face. They were friends, and he was willing to try to see that Baby Face died because of that, but he was afraid that it would not go well. After all, surely Baby Face realized that Tony wanted him dead. In fact, Baby Face probably already wanted to kill Tony. And he would not spare the other members of the mob, either. If they wanted to get the first strike, they would have to be extremely careful. Baby Face could be watching them at any given moment.

"Hey," exclaimed the man who had lost the poker game, "didn't you say something once about some guy that looks exactly like Baby Face? You guys'll have to be careful that you don't knock him off instead." He was actually not a part of Tony's gang, or of any other gang, but merely a great fan of poker who frequented the casino where they were now. He was one of Tony's friends—or perhaps "informant" would be a better word—and he often provided Tony with needed information for various capers.

Tony rolled his eyes in annoyance at the memory. He knew now that it had been Micky whom he had encountered on the street one day and Micky whom he had later tried to gun down in front of a local police station. But there would not be any other such mistakes. "The next time we strike, we'll get the real Baby Face," he vowed. He would tail the double too, if he had to, in order to make certain that they did not attack him. Tony was annoyed that he had been fooled by Micky, when Micky had later impersonated Baby Face—but he was not so annoyed that he hated him and wanted to kill him, as Baby Face did.

xxxx

It was late the following evening when Micky regained consciousness.

As his eyes opened he gazed around the room in awe and confusion. Where was he? And why was he wherever it was?

He frowned. This waking up with memory loss was becoming too frequent for his liking. At least this time he could see where he was, he decided as he tried to shift position. A boring, bare room that smelled like medicine. . . .

He let out a gasp as excruciating pain shot through his body. He froze, not trying to move anymore. Now it was all coming back.

_I'm lucky to be alive at all,_ he realized. _I thought I was a goner for sure._

Sleepily he gazed around the room. The other three Monkees were sitting on chairs by the bed. Mike was in the middle and Peter and Davy were unwillingly dozing, having laid their heads against Mike's shoulders. All of them looked exhausted. Probably none of them had gotten much sleep since finding him. Maybe if they realized that he was awake now, they would be able to feel more at peace about going to sleep.

"Hey, guys," he said slowly. He wanted to sit up more, but such an action would be a serious mistake under the circumstances, so he remained where he was and leaned a bit more into the pillows.

Instantly the others snapped to attention. "Micky?" they burst out with one voice.

Joy filled Mike's heart as he took in the scene. "It's good to see you awake, Shotgun," he declared.

"We were worried you weren't going to make it!" Davy added.

"I knew you would," Peter smiled.

Micky blinked at him, brushing unruly bangs out of his eyes. "Yeah?" he said in confusion, but before Peter could explain himself further, Davy was talking again.

"Micky, how are you feeling?"

Micky gave a weak grin. "Well, I guess I could feel worse," he replied ruefully.

Mike shook his head. "Baby Face really did a number on you," he proclaimed. "He shot you in four places!"

Micky winced. "Yeah, I remember. Did he get away?"

"He sure did," Peter frowned. "But it's okay. He'll get caught eventually, because crime never pays and evil never wins." He smiled assuredly and leaned back.

"But how many people will get hurt or even die before that happens?" Micky pointed out.

Peter looked down. "I didn't think of that," he confessed, and shuddered. Micky had almost died, and there were certainly plenty of others who had, or else Baby Face would not have gotten the title of the "most vicious killer in America." And the people he had killed had probably had families and loved ones who missed them. Peter could not stand to think of any more deaths at Baby Face's hands.

Micky patted him on the shoulder.

Now Micky remembered Peter's earlier remark. "Hey," he said, looking to the bassist, "why did you say that you knew I'd be okay, Pete?" he asked.

Peter turned his gaze back to Micky. "Because you told me," he replied, "and anyway, I knew you wouldn't want Baby Face to win."

Micky continued to be confused. "But Pete, I didn't tell you anything," he answered. "I've been kinda down for the count."

Mike stepped forward. "Yeah, well, Peter thought that you'd woken up at some point and talked to him," he explained, bewildered himself.

Davy nodded. "Mike and I went out to try to find Baby Face and Peter said he'd stay here with you while we were gone. When we came back, he told us this about you." He leaned on the railing of the bed as he spoke. Did Micky simply did not remember because he had been so ill at the time? Or had the incident Peter mentioned not actually happened at all? It looked like they would never know for sure.

"But I know I wasn't sleeping!" Peter cried. "This really happened!"

Now Micky reached over and laid a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Just because I don't remember it doesn't mean it didn't happen," he said, not being obnoxious for once. Peter had been just as worried about him as Mike and Davy had been, and he did not feel like teasing Peter or being sarcastic at the moment, despite his perplexity over the tale. "But oh well, it really doesn't matter, does it?" he went on. "Whether it was real or not, it gave you comfort, and hey, I am gonna be okay." He smiled slightly.

Peter smiled too. "And then everything will be back to normal," he proclaimed.

"We can hope so," Mike remarked.


	8. A Month Later

Four weeks passed.

Micky was healing quicker than expected and was able to go home to recover after spending a week in the hospital—although he did need to work daily on his physical therapy after the muscle damage caused by the bullets.

The others helped him all that they could. Though there were rough days when nothing seemed to go quite right, and sometimes Micky was frustrated when he could not manage to complete certain exercises, for the most part all of them were just rejoicing that he was getting better. The rough days would not last.

Tony was keeping a close watch on Micky and the other Monkees, just to be sure that he did not go after Micky when he wanted Baby Face—and also because he wondered if Baby Face might learn that Micky was not dead and come to try again. So far Tony was not having any luck finding where Baby Face was hiding. Ruby had apparently gone with him, too, so she was not at the Purple Pelican for him to question.

The elusive mobster was actually hiding out in the same ghost town in which the Monkees had once been stranded. He and the others had taken up temporary residence in the hotel and he had picked a suite that had an adjoining door into the next room over, which Ruby had claimed. She was worried about him and especially concerned that he had lost too much blood, despite his insistence that he was fine.

Days spent in the deserted town were long and dull, and the gangsters entertained themselves with rounds of target practice and searching the buildings for any loot that might have been left by previous mobs. After all, Baby Face had pointed out, it was a spot known among those in the underworld as a good hideout. They had not been the first to come there, and in particular Baby Face had heard that it was the location that the mobster known only as The Big Man had chosen for several of his capers—before he had been murdered by his wife, Bessie Kowalski.

Baby Face still felt that The Big Man had been a fool to have not realized that Bessie wanted to take over his criminal operations. He was certain that he would not have been so stupid. Ruby did not have any such ambitions; Baby Face had made sure of that before getting involved with her.

One day, at the close of the fourth week, Baby Face decided to wander into the old jail. It gave him a certain sense of pleasure to see an abandoned correctional facility, and as he searched the cells, he happened to notice something falling out of an old mattress. Ordinarily he would not have paid any attention to it, but the sun had fallen on it and he noticed it glimmering. So he went over and pulled it free of the stuffing—and promptly found himself holding an emerald. Slowly he began to smirk. Some other mobster had hidden his stash in here.

Over the next several minutes, he cut open both mattresses with a pocket knife and discovered not only more jewels, but a locked briefcase. He soon managed to get that picked open, after a lot of cursing and yelling, and then found a stack of intriguing documents. As he leafed through them, his eyes lit up. There was a lot of incriminating information contained in those documents, all concerning the criminal organization the Syndicate. He could easily blackmail Syndicate members, if the need ever arose.

"Boss?"

He turned around quickly, finding himself looking at a confused lackey. Most likely the older man was wondering why Baby Face had decided to pick the jailhouse to explore.

The mobster smirked. "Yeah? What is it, Rocco?"

"Why're you here?" Rocco asked, blinking at him in confusion. "I thought we were gonna get away from jails."

Baby Face regarded him coolly. "I'm just making plans for our next caper." He held up the documents. "You used to be part of the Syndicate, didn't you?"

Rocco gulped. "Yeah, but that's all over now," he said quickly. He had been let out of prison some time ago for good behavior, and he had at first tried to lead an honest life—until he discovered that the Syndicate was not going to let him go so easily. His former boss was dead—killed in a shootout with other gangsters, in which Rocco himself had been wounded—but there were plenty of other Syndicate members that also knew of Rocco's involvement in the organization.

It had been quite by accident that Baby Face had stumbled across him one night, and he had decided to take Rocco into his mob in place of Vince. Rocco had at first been reluctant, but then he had accepted, deciding it would be a way to get away from the Syndicate at least for a while. And yet on the other hand he was just trading one criminal organization for another. It probably did not make much difference which one he remained with.

It certainly was different, though, to have Baby Face for his boss instead of Mr. Fuselli. Baby Face was at least fifteen years younger than Rocco, and was actually only barely out of his teens. Rocco was still mystified that Baby Face could even be the notorious murderer that he was, and sometimes he also wondered why so many criminals who were much older than Baby Face would agree to serve under him and take orders from him.

Even though Baby Face had a way of instilling fear in the hearts of so many people, those who were his henchmen were not all with him mostly out of fear instead of respect. Baby Face had a disturbing amount of strength when he was furious, and Rocco had already seen him take out his anger on several people. But nevertheless, even the gang members who feared him also seemed to hold a certain level of respect for him and what he had managed to accomplish.

"They're probably still looking for you," Baby Face retorted, his voice smooth as he flipped through the papers.

Rocco was not sure that he liked where this was going. "What do you mean, Boss?" he asked.

Baby Face smiled. Rocco never liked it when he smiled. It looked eerie coming from him. "They owe us some favors," he explained, "and I think we can squeeze 'em right out of the Syndicate mobsters' scrawny necks."

Rocco gulped. "Playin' with the Syndicate's pretty dangerous," he observed, "even for you, Boss." Then he winced as Baby Face slapped him across the face.

"Everything in the underworld is dangerous," Baby Face growled. "That's never stopped me before. I could get all of the Western U.S. Syndicate members sent to the chair with these papers." With that he replaced them in the briefcase, along with the gems that he had found. Rocco looked at these with goggle-eyed interest before the valise was closed.

"Are you gonna give one of those to Ruby?" he asked.

Baby Face grunted. "What I give to Ruby is my own business," he answered. "Now go round up the boys. We're gonna be going into the city soon."

Rocco was confused at this, though he hesitated to question Baby Face again. Still, he could not seem to hold his tongue. "Soon?" he repeated. "But, Boss, your shoulder. . . ."

"My shoulder's fine," Baby Face answered smoothly. "Now go round up the boys." With that he turned and walked out of the cell with the briefcase.

They would not be going back to Los Angeles just to blackmail the Syndicate. No, Baby Face had plans a lot deeper and darker than that. Before he was done, he was certain that Tony would be led into a trap—and then Baby Face would have his revenge. And while he was at it, it would not hurt to attempt another heist—one more daring than ever before. If he succeeded, it would also be the most rewarding.

xxxx

Micky sighed to himself as he leaned back on the couch and leafed through a magazine. He was frustrated that he had ended up injured by Baby Face. It had caused so much grief and trouble for the others. And really, it still was.

While he had been so gravely hurt, of course there had not been a way for him to play gigs with the others. As luck would have it, they had received several offers during the course of the past three weeks. Peter had decided that there was not anything they could do except to say that they could not play, but Micky had insisted that they get a temporary replacement drummer so that they could take the jobs. After all, they needed money in a bad way, and now with the hospital expenses they needed even more. At last the others had agreed, reluctantly, and already they had tried several different drummers—a new one for each gig—and had not been especially impressed by any of them. Right now Micky was waiting for them to return from a job at the Club Cassandra.

Extremely bored, the brunet tossed the magazine onto a table and gazed up at the ceiling as he rubbed at his eyes. He was not very patient when it came to matters of health, and he was anxious to recover. Lying around the house got dull very quick. And he missed playing gigs with the others.

_I feel like I'm just a burden right now,_ he thought to himself. _I can't help the others earn money and I'm just adding to what we need to come up with!_

If only there was something he could do! He could not really think of anything—unless he tried the offer he had gotten the other day to take surveys and browse websites. Then again, that was probably not possible. Peter was already a member of most of the legal and honest survey companies, and all of them seemed to have a stipulation that only one person from each household could be a member. It did not pay a great deal, considering all the money they needed, but every little bit helped.

Stifling a yawn, Micky laid down on the couch and pulled the throw pillow closer to himself. He had been much more tired since the shooting. He often found himself dozing at various points during the day. It was probably a good thing that was helping his body to heal, but it still annoyed him as well.

The problem must be that he was so bored that _that_ was making him tired. Maybe he could just shut his eyes for a moment. He would not have to go to sleep; he could just rest there, listening to the sounds of the house—the ticking of the clock, the creaking of the building as it settled in, the scratching at the window. . . .

Micky's eyes flew open again. That did not sound like the branches from the tree that they had growing on their deck. He sat up faster than he should have and looked over the couch to the bandstand, hoping desperately that he would not see anything and hence be able to conclude that it was merely the wind. But there was a silhouette out on the balcony, looking in at him.

He gave a yelp of alarm as he got up, but then froze. What course of action should he take? If he grabbed the telephone and tried to call the police, the person could break the glass, shoot him, and come inside to see if there was anything of value to take. If he screamed for help, the person could break the glass, shoot him, and come in to see if there was anything of value to take. If he did nothing, the person could break the glass, shoot him, and come in to see if there was anything of value to take.

And so he simply stood looking at the figure for a moment, trying to determine if it was a Peeping Tom, a burglar, a vagrant, or even something else entirely.

They needed to put curtains up in a bad way.

As he was still attempting to determine what he should do, the front door suddenly opened. He nearly jumped a mile. Was it a break-in? He whirled to look, adopting a fighting stance. But then he let out a sigh of relief. It was Mike, Davy, and Peter.

"Oh, hi, guys," he breathed.

He glanced back at the bandstand. The figure at the window had fled. Now everything looked as quiet and still as it had several minutes earlier. Had he truly seen someone there? Or was he going out of his mind?

"Hey, Micky," Peter greeted, looking as tired as Micky felt. But the bassist tried to smile cheerfully anyway. He was glad to be home, and he was glad to see that Micky seemed to be alright—though he did act somewhat edgy. From the look in his eyes, Peter did not think that it was merely caused by boredom.

Micky's thoughts were a mess. Maybe everything he thought he had seen had only happened in his mind. Maybe he had gone to sleep and he had still been half in that state when he had gotten off the couch. He wanted to believe that was so. After all, why would anyone especially want to be looking in at them? They did not generally have such problems, which was one reason why they had never bothered to get some form of covering for the window at night.

He looked at each of the others in turn, trying to relax. "How did it go?" he asked.

Mike shook his head, walking over to the bandstand to set his guitar down. "Oh, I guess it went about as good as it could go," he replied. It was not a very enthusiastic response.

"Did this guy not work out either?" Micky wanted to know.

"Well, he's alright and all," Davy answered with a shrug, "but he couldn't quite keep up with us." He collapsed into a chair, still holding his tambourine and maracas.

The thought was unspoken, but all of them were wishing that Micky could have performed with them. Of course they were relieved that Micky was still alive, and they knew that was the most important thing, but that did not change the fact that they desperately needed Micky to be able to play the drums for them again. Not to mention that he was also the group's lead singer.

"How were things here?" Peter asked, remembering how nervous Micky had seemed when they had opened the door.

Micky grinned weakly. "Oh, about the same as it's been being," he answered, still unsure if he should mention what he believed had occurred moments earlier. If he actually had seen someone, maybe that was an indication that they were still in danger. It could have even been one of Baby Face's henchmen. He would not put it past the crime lord to try to find out what had happened to him, since he had not been dead right after the shooting and Baby Face might have even the slightest doubt about his demise.

Peter continued to look at him. "So everything went okay then?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure!" Micky told him, a bit too quickly. "It was just another dull evening." He glanced over at Mike, who was absently tuning his guitar. "I think I'll be able to play with you guys again soon," he declared. "I'm feeling a lot stronger now, and my shoulder doesn't hurt as much." He had actually been practicing on his drums earlier, before the nonsense with the Peeping Tom had taken place. His shoulder still hurt a lot more than he was willing to admit, but he had definitely seen improvement over the way it had been before.

Davy smiled. "Really, Micky? That's great," he said, and whole-heartedly meant it.

"Yeah," Mike chimed in. "We've really missed you."

"The people we play for have, too," Peter added. "This one girl stopped us tonight and asked about you and said that it just wasn't the same without you."

Micky blinked, somewhat surprised. "She did?" Usually it was Davy who received all of the attention. Micky had thought that if anyone were absent and would be greatly missed, it would be him. Sometimes Micky had even wondered if their audiences considered all of them to be expendable except Davy.

Peter nodded and grinned.

Mike looked over at Micky again, a new thought coming to him. "Just don't overdo things," he cautioned. "I know we're all anxious for things to get back to normal around here, but if we rush too much to make that happen, then it'll probably only make everything worse. We want to make sure you heal up properly." He absently picked out _For Pete's Sake_ on the guitar as he spoke.

Micky grinned as well. "Don't worry," he replied. "I'm careful."

Mike nodded, not looking convinced. "Uh-huh. Careful, yeah," he muttered.

xxxx

The first thing Baby Face did after returning to the Los Angeles metropolitan area was to go to the same casino that Tony had been at before. He received information from the same poker player whom Tony considered a friend-slash-informant. As far as Baby Face was concerned, the man was not working for either of them and probably was also not loyal to either of them. But Baby Face would keep him in line by threatening him regularly. Then he would get whatever information he wanted. It was amazing, how many people were so spineless. Baby Face had rarely met anyone who was willing to stand up for himself even in the face of violent warnings and intimidation.

Now as the mobster walked in, everyone looked up with a start. Most then returned to whatever they were doing, but a few followed him with their gaze until he found the desired person. He was currently engaged in a game of poker and had not even looked up.

Smirking, Baby Face wandered over to an angle where he could see first the opponent's cards, then his informant's. "You're gonna win, Bruno," he commented, and both poker players jumped.

Bruno slammed his poker hand facedown on the table as he looked up at the crime lord standing over him. "Baby Face," he greeted nervously. "You haven't been here for a while."

"Yeah, I had some other things to take care of," Baby Face answered cryptically. He looked at the man on the other side of the table and snapped his fingers commandingly with a look that read, "You've lost the game, and we have business to talk over, so get lost." The opponent did not wait to be told twice, nor to actually see if Bruno did have the winning hand. Immediately he leaped up and fled the table, going instead to the slot machines.

Baby Face now claimed the vacant chair, shoving the half-finished drink off the table and to the floor as he did. Instead of speaking again, he looked at Bruno with expectance.

Bruno leaned back and tried to mask his apprehension. "We've been hearing things since you split," he said slowly.

Baby Face frowned, studying him with a look that seemed to bore into his very soul. "Yeah? What kinda things?" he demanded.

Bruno gave a slight smile, enjoying being the one with the information. Baby Face could not kill him as long as he had a use for him, after all. "Well, first we heard that you'd been shot during your last caper," he began. "The cop who did it kept bragging about how he'd actually hit his target. He said he'd got you in the shoulder, but after a few days went by without another heist, the rumors started flying. Some guys said that you'd been shot in the leg, and then your back, or even your neck. So it's gotten strung around in a lot of places now that you're dead."

Baby Face leaned on the table and laced his fingers. "And what does Tony think?" he asked. "He's been here, hasn't he?"

Bruno nodded. "Yeah, he was in just a couple of nights ago. He doesn't believe any of the rumors. He figures that you just went into hiding, like you usually do after a big heist. And he believes the cop's story, about you getting shot in the shoulder."

Baby Face smirked. "I wouldn't have expected anything less from Tony." Now he crossed his arms on the table. "He wants to kill me, doesn't he?"

"Well," Bruno said slowly, "he was talking about it on the night when we first heard that you'd been shot. And when he was here last, he said again about wanting to see you dead. He's a lot more confident about the whole thing when he's got the gang with him."

"He's too afraid of me to try anything without them around," Baby Face retorted. "And then if he does try, he knows that he'll get it from me later on." He had heard about the incident when Tony had attacked Micky with a newspaper, continually apologizing even as he had been striking the drummer. That both amused and annoyed Baby Face. He would not have stood for such a thing and would have attacked back, as Tony should have known.

"I guess," Bruno said noncommittally, then paused. He had heard something else recently from Tony, something that Baby Face would not be pleased about in the least. Part of him hesitated to mention it, as he was afraid of invoking the gangster's legendary and infamous temper.

But Baby Face could see from his expression that there was something else. "What is it now?" he growled. "Did Tony say something more?"

It was useless to try to keep the knowledge from him. "Tony said that he's been tailing those Monkee people," Bruno said slowly. "The guy you shot up is still alive."

Baby Face's eyes flashed. "What?" he yelled, reaching over and grabbing Bruno by his tie and shirt. Many people in other parts of the casino looked to their table in curiosity, but none of them bothered to think that the police needed to be called. Skirmishes happened all the time. They did not want to involve the police if they could help it.

Bruno struggled to loosen the mobster's grip, a sense of panic rising in his heart. "Tony said he's still recovering, but he's definitely alive and he's expected to be just fine," he gasped. "I'm just the messenger!"

At last Baby Face released him, sending him flying back into his seat. "One more thing," he said after a moment in a perfectly calm voice, not giving any indication of what he planned to do with the information of Micky's survival. "Did Tony tell you where he's staying now or what he's planning to do other than to try to kill me?"

Bruno shook his head. "No, Baby Face," he replied, straightening out his clothes with an overwhelming relief. "He said something about the walls having ears. But everyone already knows about you and him being on the outs, so I guess he figured it was okay to talk about wanting to knock you off."

Baby Face nodded and began to relax. "Okay. If Tony comes back before I do, try to find something else out," he directed. "Does he show up often?"

"About once or twice a week," Bruno told him. "No more than that. And sometimes he'll go a week or two without making an appearance."

"Is there a chance he might come here tonight?" Seeing a waiter, Baby Face hailed him and placed an order for whiskey. The waiter, though nervous, agreed. Baby Face was quite well-known and notorious in these parts, and no one was ever certain what might happen when he was around.

"I guess it's possible," Bruno admitted.

"Then I'll stick around a while," Baby Face said smoothly.

Bruno gulped. "Okay, Baby Face," he agreed. Not that there was anything else to do _but_ agree when Baby Face wanted something.

"That's not gonna be a problem for you, is it?" Calmly Baby Face took the glass and the bottle of whiskey from the returning waiter and pulled the cork out of the bottle.

He was highly irritated that Micky had survived the murder attempt, but there was little that could be done about that. Perhaps at least it would teach him to stay out of the way of Baby Face and his mob. There were other matters that Baby Face wanted to put his mind to at the moment, so he would have to ignore Micky's recovery and allow him to live.

"Oh, of course not, Baby Face!" Bruno hastened to exclaim. "It's not a problem at all!" But he could not help but worry over what would happen if Tony did happen to come and then realized that Bruno was also giving information to Baby Face. That would not be pretty.

"Good." Baby Face downed the liquor in one gulp and began pouring another half a glass.

One thing he had to be careful of was to not drink so much that he would become intoxicated and possibly might make a foolish mistake. Of course, he was able to tolerate alcohol quite well, so he was not extremely concerned about that possibility. He knew his limits and did not consume more than that—unless, of course, he was so upset about something that he just did not care. And at this point, he was not.

xxxx

It was later that night when it began to rain. At first it was a mild shower, but as time stretched into the early morning hours it started to beat down harshly over the buildings, cars, and streets. Anyone who was outside for some reason scrambled for any shelter that they could find, desperate to get out of the downpour.

Linda was heading for the Monkees' Pad, pulling her cloak close around her as the rain beat down on her back and slapped her face. She had run away from Henry sometime back and had been hitchhiking her way back to Malibu Beach since then. He had promised her that they would run away from Baby Face and the Mob, but she had caught him making plans on the telephone to pull off another caper with Baby Face and to use the moving van to escape with the loot. After what had happened to Micky, Linda had not felt that she could trust Henry at all, and that conversation had sealed things for her. Now she was running to the only people she felt she could trust.

And yet, they would not want her around after the part she had played in Micky's death. She really had no idea what she would do when she reached them. She had not even thought about it. Right now the only thing on her mind was getting away from Henry.

As she stumbled around a corner her right foot splashed into a puddle. A cry of surprise left her lips as she started to fall right into the path of an oncoming car. The horn blared in warning or irritation—Linda was not certain which, but it hardly mattered. Was she going to die?

Instinctively she held her hands out in front of her as she tumbled forward. Considering the way she had ruined her life, as well as those of the Monkees', it was hard not to wonder if it would be better to simply perish. But at the last possible moment the vehicle halted. Stunned, Linda looked up to see an annoyed man leaning out of the window.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snapped.

As their eyes met they both started. Linda could hardly believe it.

"Vince!" she exclaimed. Of all people she could have met in this area, she had least expected to see him. She had not heard from him or Tony or any of the others since they had betrayed Baby Face and had left to form their own gang, though she had known that the mobster wanted to kill them as well as Micky.

That did not surprise her, but she was not happy about it either. Of course she knew that Tony wanted to kill Baby Face, but she had to admit that she would not be that sad to see him die. He had killed so many others, and most of them had perished needlessly. For him to be dead would be a service not only to the underworld, but to all the innocent people in America.

But in thinking of this, Linda failed to consider the fact that if Baby Face was dead, it would only give rise to others just like him—or worse.

"Linda, what are you doing here?" Vince asked in disbelief, dragging her back to the present. "Is Baby Face around?"

Linda shook her head with vehemence as she hurried over to the car. "No he isn't, and I hope I never see him again!" she declared. "I don't want to see Henry again either! They're both terrible people!"

Vince blinked in confusion. "So you're running away from Baby Face's mob?" he asked.

"Yes I am!" Linda said without hesitation. "I'm tired of living a double life. The last straw was when Henry helped our former boss kill Micky Dolenz."

Her eyes flashed in bitterness. Even though she was generally a submissive, kind person, she felt that she had been gravely betrayed—and even worse, that her submissiveness had helped to be responsible for what had happened to Micky. This sense of guilt mixed with bitterness was turning her into a much different person.

"But Dolenz survived," Vince replied, still bewildered.

Linda stared at him, swaying and nearly falling over in her astonishment. "He did?" she gasped, grabbing onto the car window to steady herself.

Vince nodded. "Yeah. Tony's had us watching him and the others, in case Baby Face decides to come back and try again. Tony kinda thinks that Baby Face will leave Dolenz alone for right now, but he wanted us to watch anyway. He wants to kill Baby Face, you know."

He unlocked the passenger door. "Hey, you'd better get in," he exclaimed. "The rain's really coming down."

Linda blinked, then nodded slowly as she walked around the car and got inside. What Vince had told her had been so shocking that she had forgotten that she was drenched. With a sigh she brushed a stray and wet lock of hair out of her eyes, then looked back to Vince.

"So Micky really is alright?" she demanded to know. That seemed too impossible to be true. Henry and Baby Face both had been certain that Micky was dead.

"Yeah, he seems to be," Vince replied. "Well, he's mostly been staying at his home. He hasn't even gone out to play the music gigs with his friends, but I think he's been getting a lot better than he was."

Linda let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. "That still doesn't change things," she said darkly, though an immense sense of relief and happiness was washing over her at the news of Micky's survival. "I still want out."

"I don't think they'll let you go," Vince told her.

"I don't care," Linda answered, and found she meant it. "If the only way I can live is to be involved with killing other people, then I'd rather just die myself." She crossed her arms over her chest as she glared out the windshield at the pouring rain.

Vince sighed. "You were never really cut out for this kinda business anyway," he said, revving the engine and turning the car around. Henry had always thought that Linda would either get used to it and become hardened or else stay as submissive and quiet as ever, disapproving but never doing anything about it. Baby Face, Tony, and the rest of the gang had been certain that Linda would never get used to it and that eventually she probably would rebel. It seemed strange that they had known her better, in that respect, than had her own husband.

Linda was silent during the drive. She did not know where they were going, but at this point she did not care. Henry would be looking for her. He would probably catch up sooner or later. It would not look good for her to be with someone who was now in a mob rivaling Baby Face's, but how could things get any worse than they already were? Tony's gang was already in hot water with Baby Face and Linda did not believe that her presence would make things so very much more worse.

Besides, she liked the company. At least Vince listened to her instead of always insisting on being right.


	9. Telephone Calls and Plots

**Notes: Oh my gosh, the real Davy Jones is dead at 66. That is way too young to die. I****'m still very stunned and shocked by this tragic development. This chapter is posted today in his honor. We love you and miss you, David Jones.**

The next day Micky was up early to practice on the drums. The other Monkees were still sleeping, so instead of actually hitting the instruments, Micky mimed it. Right now the main thing he wanted to see was how long he could go at it without his wounds bothering him. If he could successfully play for an hour or more, then he was confident that he would be able to last during a concert.

After about thirty minutes, Micky's shoulder was starting to ache. Narrowing his eyes in frustration, he ignored his previously set goal and continued to work. He probably should not keep at it, but really, the wounds were healing nicely and he was so tired of being left at home while the others were working hard to make money. The last thing Micky ever wanted was to be a burden.

Maybe if he could not play for a full set, he could play for half the time and Davy could play for the rest. Davy knew enough about the drums to play them during a couple of their songs when Micky needed to play something else. He just did not feel confident enough in his abilities to play them for a whole concert. And anyway, the girls would probably not like it if Davy was back there the whole time.

Before long the motions were almost mechanical and Micky's thoughts were beginning to wander as he continued his unorthodox practice session.

What about the figure he had seen at the window the previous night? He was certain that it had truly happened and that he had not been simply seeing things. And in that case, he needed to tell the others in case it meant they were still in danger. Maybe it had even been Baby Face.

But actually, the prowler had been quite a bit shorter than Baby Face.

The drummer's eyes widened, then narrowed as he contemplated this. There was no one in Baby Face's current gang who was that height. It was a wild thought, but could it have been Tony who had been watching him? If so, why? What interest would Tony have in him?

He shuddered. Could Tony be mistaking him for Baby Face again? The last thing he wanted to do was to deal with Baby Face's former associate. Tony made him extremely nervous.

His reverie was cut short by the ringing of the telephone. With a start he eased himself up and slowly moved over to where the red device was still incessantly announcing a caller. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered. To his surprise, he managed to reach it before it ceased ringing. "Hello, this is the Monkees' place," he said as he answered and leaned back on the couch.

"There's four Monkees, aren't there?" a gravelly voice asked.

Micky frowned, not liking the sound of this at all. "Yeah," he admitted. "Why? Who is this?" It was not likely that someone would call this early about a job, so perhaps it was instead someone who did not have good intentions. He did not recognize the voice, but it did not sound friendly in the least.

"Nevermind," snapped the voice's owner. "Just stay on your toes if you wanna make sure that there continues to be four of you."

"Hey! Is this a threat?" Micky demanded. It certainly sounded as though it were one. Why else would someone say such a strange thing? Subconsciously he gripped the telephone cord. "Are you working for Baby Face?"

A dry laugh was his answer. "As if I'd work for him, or any other mobster. I wouldn't wanna be tied down like that." Now there was a pause and heavy breathing on the other end of the line, as if the person were anxious. When the man spoke again, his voice was considerably lower. "If you wanna catch the guy, and his mob, there's still some stuff hidden in the Evanses' house. Linda put it there right before she and Henry left."

Micky was stunned. "She did?" he exclaimed, then frowned in suspicion. "How do you know that?"

"You'll just have to trust me."

Micky had never liked being told that by a stranger, and he was especially sensitive on the matter at this point. "Look, whoever you are," he snapped, "my friends and I were betrayed by Linda and Henry Evans, when we'd thought they'd been our friends for years! But they set me up to be killed by Baby Face Morales. So now you call, I've never heard you before at all, and you want me to trust you? If I can't even trust people who were my friends, why should I trust some guy who's never even talked to me before?"

Now there was another pause, longer than the first. "Okay, okay, I see your point," the caller growled. "But I still can't tell you anything about me. So don't trust me. Just go check out the house, or get the police to do it, and see what you find. And even though I'm not threatening you, it's possible that someone else might. You mess with the Mob, you're bound to get burned."

Micky was more confused than ever. "So you tell us to be careful so someone won't get killed, and then you tell us about investigating the Evanses' home? How can we be careful that way?" Maybe this entire call was a prank. Maybe it was a complete waste of his time and he should have hung up ages ago, when the person had first given their "threat," or warning, or whatever it had been supposed to be.

Instead of an answer, now there was what sounded like indistinct arguing on the other end of the line. Then the sound of either a car backfiring or gunshots filled the receiver and there was a sharp click.

Micky started and cringed. "Hey!" he called. "Hello? Hello? Hey, are you still there?"

But there was neither a reply or a dial tone. At last he let the receiver slip from his hand and back into the cradle, stunned and bewildered and more than a little unsettled. What on earth had that been about? And . . . could the man he had been speaking with have been murdered? In frustration he set the phone aside and then turned around to see the others coming down the stairs.

"Micky, what's going on down here?" Davy asked sleepily.

"Yeah, you don't usually get up so early," Mike noted.

"He probably got woke up by the telephone," Peter surmised, and looked to Micky for confirmation.

Micky was too rattled to argue. "Nevermind that!" he exclaimed. "Something weird's going on, guys!" With that he proceeded to explain about the Peeping Tom he had seen last night and then about the telephone call that had just come through. The other Monkees listened, shocked and speechless. It was so much to be happening all at once.

"You don't have any idea who you were talking to?" Mike wanted to know.

"No!" Micky retorted.

"And there weren't any background sounds that would help determine where he was calling from?" Davy asked.

Now Micky had to pause to think. "I didn't think there were," he said slowly, "but now that you mention it, it kinda sounded like there was a rushing noise."

"A rushing noise?" Peter said in confusion.

"Yeah," Micky replied. "You know, like water or something." He began to pace about the room. "The ocean's calm right now, so he couldn't have been calling from somewhere on the beach," he thought out loud, "and anyway, it didn't sound like that kind of water." He gazed up at the ceiling as he tried to think of a way to describe it. "It was more like it was falling down from somewhere," he said finally.

The other Monkees looked at each other, then back at Micky. "You mean like a waterfall?" Davy suggested.

Micky snapped his fingers. "A waterfall! That's it!" he declared.

Davy frowned. "But are there any waterfalls around here? We're just on the edge of a metropolis."

"There's some in the canyons not too far away," Mike mused. "Maybe the guy has a cabin up there somewhere."

Micky nodded. That sounded logical. "Well, maybe we need to have the police check it out," he said slowly. "It sounded like he was being shot." He sighed. "I guess he's probably dead, but we should probably still try to get help for him, just in case." He went over to the spiral banister and leaned on it. "And we need to figure out what we're going to do about what the guy said about the Evanses' house."

"Do you really need to wonder?" Davy retorted.

"Monkees are notoriously curious, after all," Peter smiled.

"Let's call the police about that guy and then go," Mike said firmly.

xxxx

Searching the Evanses' home proved to be quite an unpleasant task. Most everything had been moved out and the house was bare, but the Monkees still had the memories of the times spent there when Linda and Henry had been their friends. It was hard to go back now and to look through the abode, remembering those good times and also what had come after that.

Peter was especially affected. "I remember the last time they had us over for dinner," he said, his voice quiet, as he and Micky finished their check of the dining room and headed upstairs. "Then we played for them and they sang along. . . ." His shoulders slumped. "Was none of that sincere?" he wondered. "Were they never our friends? Or did they just turn against us later, when Baby Face found out that they were our neighbors?"

Micky sighed, pushing open the door to Henry's office. "It's really hard to say, Pete," he answered, surveying the completely empty room. Henry had made certain to take every bit of his collection, including the closet's occupant. But Micky wandered in anyway, deciding to check the walls for trapdoors. "Does it really matter now?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Peter. "I mean . . . they sure aren't our friends any more."

Peter followed him in and began feeling along the opposite wall. "I think it matters," he said sadly. "I mean, wouldn't it be worse if they really had been our friends and then they just turned against us? That would be like . . . like any of us turning against the others."

Micky stopped what he was doing and looked back at his friend. Sometimes the insights that Peter came up with amazed him, not that he tended to admit when that was the case. But this was one of those times; Peter had a point.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I guess so."

Peter sighed, turning to look at him. "Sometimes I still think about that time when we all fell for April, the girl from the laundromat," he declared. "Do you remember that, Micky?"

Micky groaned. "Don't remind me." None of them had been at their best during that escapade. April had almost been the unwitting cause of the quartet's friendships completely falling to shreds. Micky was annoyed when he recalled that time now, and disgusted at the way he and the others had behaved.

Peter resumed checking for secret panels as he talked. "Well, we almost all turned against each other," he said. "What if . . . what if something like that happens again sometime?" That was one of his worst fears. He could not stand the thought that anything would happen to break up their friendships, but now after the experience with the Evanses, it worried him more than ever—and that was the real reason why he was so concerned about whether the couple had ever actually been their friends or not.

Micky froze and then glared at the wall. He hated that Peter even had to worry and wonder about something such as that. If the misadventures with April and with the Evanses had taught him anything, it was that they could not let anything destroy their friendships. They had become a family, and that was something that should not be treated lightly in any way, shape, or form.

"Oh come on, Peter!" he cried now, perhaps sounding more harsh then he had intended. "That's not going to happen."

Peter bit his lip. "I hope not," he said softly.

Micky sighed and went over to the blond Monkee. "It won't, okay?" he said firmly, but in a softer voice. "We care about each other too much to let it."

Peter tried to smile. "Okay," he agreed.

Micky patted him on the shoulder, then went to the door. "I can't find anything in here. Let's try the bedrooms," he suggested.

As they walked into the hall there was a shout from Davy on the first floor. Startled, Micky stopped and Peter slammed into him.

"I think I found something!" the British Monkee announced. "You fellas had better get down here."

xxxx

Linda looked into the mug of cocoa that she had been nursing for the past half hour. Her hair, still damp from the rain, hung over her shoulders and framed her face. Tony was sitting across the table from her, looking impatient, but Linda ignored him. Her mind was in a whirl, still processing the information that Vince had given her the previous night and wondering what she should do about the other mob.

Suddenly her eyes lit up.

"What is it?" Tony growled.

He had never particularly liked Linda, especially when she became overly emotional. He had not been happy when Vince had brought her back to the hideout and said that she was leaving Baby Face's mob, but he had decided to let her stay for at least a short while just in case she had something worthwhile to tell him.

He knew, however, that she would not remain long. If she was serious about trying to get out of the Mob, then she would not want to be with Tony's operation any more than she wanted to be with Baby Face's.

"I hid some papers in my house!" Linda exclaimed, looking up at him.

Tony was not impressed. "What kind of papers?" he demanded.

"Documents about the kinds of things Henry and Baby Face are doing," Linda replied, growing more excited. If she could get hold of those papers again, she could see to it that the entire gang was brought to justice.

Now Tony was starting to become interested. He did not care about sending the mob to jail, but having those papers could prove useful to him. He might be able to use them to manipulate his former ally and lead him into a fatal trap.

"How long ago was this?" he wanted to know.

"It was right before Henry and I left, when we took Micky to Baby Face," Linda answered, walking out from behind the table. "I hid them behind a panel in the family room. They should still be there!" She looked back to Tony, seeing his eyes flash with contemplation. Then she knew. "You want them, don't you?" she said quietly.

"What good is getting them thrown in the pen?" Tony responded as he stood up and went over to her. Linda was not the smartest person around, but at times she could be good at discerning what people were thinking. "They'll only get out again. I want to fix it so that Baby Face can't come back at all." He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "That's what you want too, isn't it?"

Linda swallowed. She hated to admit that it was true, but in her heart she knew that it was. She wanted Baby Face out of the way permanently. In some way, she felt like that was the only way that she would be able to make up what had happened to Micky. Having Baby Face die, when he was a notorious, heartless murderer, would never be the same thing as killing a guiltless person such as Micky.

"Don't bring in the police," Tony went on, observing from her actions that she was coming to terms with the fact that he was right. "We'll go with you to your house and get the papers, and we'll use them to lead Baby Face into a trap that he won't walk away from."

After a moment she looked up at him again. "You don't want him to die for the same reasons that I do," she said quietly.

Tony's eyes narrowed in frustration. "You know that you could never see that he dies by yourself," he retorted. "You need us along or it will never happen." He knew that he and Linda had different motives, but that did not concern him. If Linda was desperate enough to see that Baby Face died, then he was certain that she would work with him. And if she still refused, well, he could get the papers away from her—or even bluff to Baby Face about having them himself when he did not.

But at last Linda slowly nodded. "You're right," she acknowledged. "I couldn't even stop my husband from taking Micky to Baby Face. I'd never be able to outwit a heartless mobster on my own." Her stomach twisted, and somehow she had the feeling that she still was not doing the right thing, but she ignored her conscience and looked to Tony with eyes of determination and steel. "Let's do it."

Tony nodded, satisfied. "I'll tell Vince to get the car," he said, walking out of the room.

xxxx

As it turned out, by the time they arrived at Linda's old house the police were already there. They stared at the black-and-white cars in disbelief and bemusement.

"How'd they get here?" Vince wondered.

"Drive around the block before they can see us," Tony instructed.

Vince immediately complied.

To his and the others' relief, none of the police officers seemed to take note of their car. They were much too occupied with the reason they had been summoned.

Tony looked at Linda, annoyance burning in his eyes. "It looks like the cops have already got to whatever you put there," he snapped. "You should've gone and got it last night instead of trying to run off to those musicians."

"I didn't remember at the time!" Linda gasped. "I was so distraught. . . ."

Tony rolled his eyes, not impressed at all. "It should have been the first thing you thought about when you ran off!"

Vince kept quiet during their argument. Even though Tony did not completely go berserk the way Baby Face was prone to, it was always better to not anger him further when he was already upset. Vince understood how overwhelmed Linda must have felt the previous night, but he was irritated with this setback as well. How could Linda have not remembered about the documents before she had mentioned them?

Abruptly Tony cut into his thoughts. "Alright, there's not any point in getting ticked off about this." He leaned back in the seat, a new plan beginning to form. "There's no reason why Baby Face has to know that we really don't have the papers."

Vince blinked. "You mean we'll make him think we do?"

"That's right," Tony nodded. "The police probably won't broadcast that they have them, so Baby Face won't know we're bluffing. And by the time he realizes we are, it'll be too late."

Linda was liking the sound of this less and less. She had wanted to get away from the Mob, and while she had broken ties with Baby Face's gang, here she was getting involved with those who had once been part of it and were plotting to kill someone else.

Was it right to try to kill even Baby Face? She was no longer sure. But she could see that she had already dug herself into a deep pit from which she could not easily get out of. She shrank back into the seat, wishing that she could disappear. It probably would have been better, she decided, if she had been killed by the car last night.

"What about Henry?" she asked finally.

Tony looked at her. "What about him?"

"Are you going to try to kill him too?" Linda searched his eyes, but she could not find the answers there. "I . . . I still love him, even though I'm upset with what he's been doing."

"We'll have to see." Tony glared out the window. "I don't know what's going to happen." It was not his intention for Henry to die—unless he interfered.

But Linda's bad feeling only increased.

xxxx

In spite of the amount of trouble they had been having lately, Mike found himself relaxing somewhat as the police officers looked over the documents.

"How about that?" he mused. "They said there's enough stuff there to get the whole mob behind bars." Of course, that was providing that they could find Baby Face and his mob in the first place. Other police officers and search-and-rescue teams were in the canyons, trying to find the cabin from which the phone call could have been made. So far, they had not had any luck.

"That would certainly be a relief," Davy agreed, crossing his arms. They had just finished going over the rest of the house to make certain that nothing else was hidden there in some other place, but it looked as though they had gotten everything there was to find.

Peter blinked, suddenly noticing a piece of paper on the ground. "Hey," he said, reaching to pick it up, "it looks like they dropped something."

"What is it?" Mike asked, glancing over.

Peter frowned, turning the paper first one way and then another. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "It's a map of some kind, I think."

Immediately Micky snatched it from him and looked it over. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "This is a map showing how to get to a cabin in the canyons!" He smiled, looking up at the others. "Coincidence? I think not."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Davy declared. "Let's show this to the police and go there!"

xxxx

Naturally, the police did not want the Monkees to accompany them to the cabin. It was much too dangerous, they said, and civilians should never be involved if they did not have to be. The Monkees had already had more trouble than they should have had from the mess. They were advised to sit back and allow the police to handle the rest.

The Monkees, however, had different ideas.

"It's true that we've ended up with more than our fair share of trouble with Baby Face and his mob," Mike said as they drove up the highway leading to the canyons, "but that's all the more reason why we wanna see this thing through to the end."

"That's right!" Davy cried.

Mike frowned at the sight of a sharp turn up ahead. "You better brace yourselves, guys," he called. He whipped the Monkeemobile around the curve as quickly and as safely as he could.

Davy's eyes widened as the swerve caused him to crash against Mike.

"But what about the warning we were given?" Peter asked. He was too involved in his thoughts to even pay much attention to the effects of the turn.

"You mean from that guy?" Micky asked. Slowly he let go of the seat in front of him as the car straightened out again.

"Yeah!" Peter nodded. "He told us to stay on our toes."

"Well," Mike quipped dryly, "we're not ballerinas." He rounded another, gentler corner. "What's the map say, Micky?"

The drummer glanced down at the paper that was spread open on his lap. "It looks like we go around a couple more times and then get off the road. There's supposed to be two tall pine trees that mark where we turn. . . ." He trailed off as he saw something out of the corner of his eye. "Actually, uh, that looks like them there," he said with a sheepish smile.

Mike sighed. "Are there any other cars around?" he wanted to know.

"I don't see any," Davy replied. "Everything looks deserted!"

Mike glanced about himself before carefully making a U-turn and going off the road at the spot where the two trees were. Though he did not say anything, he was thinking that it would probably be better if Micky did not serve as their navigator. This was not the first time he had nearly sent them on the wrong course.

They drove through the woods for quite some time before anything resembling civilization came into view. Then a cabin appeared, but it was not the one on the map. Confused, the Monkees drove on further and saw another cabin, and another.

"I didn't realize this was such a hot spot for people to build their cabins," Mike said with a slight frown as they drove by the sixth such abode.

"It's almost like a village," Peter smiled, thinking it seemed very quaint.

Micky sighed, leaning on the window. "Well, none of these places are right," he remarked. "They're not by a waterfall." Perhaps they were not in the correct area at all. He rubbed his eyes, frustrated and hoping that he had not led them on a wild goose chase.

"Hey," Davy said, leaning forward in the seat to look ahead, "there's another cabin way over there, right on the edge of that cliff. And does anyone else hear that rushing noise?" He was baffled, as he could not see where the source of the sound was coming from. And yet it was a very obvious and loud noise. The other Monkees heard it as well.

"Maybe it's on the cliff that the house is on," Peter suggested. The others looked at him as if they thought he was quite mad, and he sighed and looked down.

"Actually," Mike said after a moment, "I think Peter might be right. I'm gonna park us over here, where they can't see us." Expertly he maneuvered the car into a hiding place among the thick pine trees near the first cabin. "And it looks like the police aren't here yet," he muttered to no one in particular.

"You know we're getting into a very potentially dangerous situation," Davy remarked as Mike shut off the engine.

"And I think I saw the curtain move!" Peter exclaimed, staring intently at the first bungalow.

Micky sighed, shaking his head. "They must have heard us coming," he muttered. "I just hope the ones in the cabin by the cliff didn't."

Mike nodded in agreement. "Let's walk through the, uh, village while we can," he suggested, "and then keep to the trees when we're past it."

"Maybe someone here knows what happened," Peter remarked as they walked over to the small white houses.

"I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask," Davy said with a shrug, wandering to the nearest door and knocking. After a moment of not getting a response, Mike shook his head and turned away.

"Let's go," he said. "There's probably not anyone home. Maybe none of these cabins are occupied right now, except the one that guy was calling from."

Davy was about to turn and follow when the door suddenly flew open. Then his eyes widened and he stared in disbelief at Toto, Dragonman's lackey. "You!" he gasped, while Toto was looking at him and the other Monkees in confusion.

"Am I supposed to remember you from somewhere?" he asked. It seemed that all Americans still looked alike to him.

"You fool!" came Dragonman's angry voice from inside. "It's The Monkees, the musicians who took Doomsday bug formula!"

Mike immediately grabbed Davy and dragged him off the porch while Micky and Peter were also fleeing. "Well," the Texan said now, "it looks like we came at a bad time, so we'll just be on our way."

"Sorry for bothering you!" Davy added.

"After them!" Dragonman yelled.

In a panic, the quartet ran to the next cabin and knocked, hoping for help. But in this they were disappointed, as the door was thrown open by Rudi Bayshore. "Hey, Master," he called, "it's those four guys that you tried to make into your mind slaves!"

"Really? You don't say," Oraculo could be heard to reply. "Don't let them get away, Rudi!"

"What is this?" Micky gasped in disbelief as they ran away from that cabin, pursued by Dragonman, Toto, Chang, Oraculo, and Rudi. "It looks like all of our old enemies are hanging out here!"

"Maybe we should try the next cabin," Peter suggested, much to the other Monkees' displeasure and alarm.

"Let's just run!" Davy gasped, flying over a log in his path.

"Out of the frying pan and into the fire," Mike remarked, thinking of what was probably awaiting them at the bungalow on the edge of the precipice.


	10. Gangwar

Baby Face leaned back at the table, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "The representative from the Syndicate said he'd be over to negotiate by five o'clock, and it's already five-thirty," he muttered, rubbing at his eyes.

"Maybe they're not going to negotiate, Boss," Rocco suggested nervously. "Maybe they're going to come with machine guns to kill us all." He paced back and forth in front of the window, pulling the curtain aside every now and then to look outside. But everything still seemed deserted.

"I already thought of that," Baby Face grumbled. "That's why we don't have the papers on us anymore. If they come to kill us, then they still won't get the papers back." He downed the liquor and slammed the glass down on the oak wood table. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked seriously close to becoming completely inebriated. Being in this condition only made him all the more angry.

Rocco was careful to keep his distance from him. "Maybe they'll kill us anyway," he worried, thinking of the shootout he had been involved in when Mr. Fuselli and almost everyone else had ended up dead. As far as he knew, he had been the only survivor.

"We're ready for them," Baby Face answered, drawing his gun out from inside his jacket. "If they wanna fight, we'll fight." He leaned forward, propping himself up on his elbow. "What I'd like to know is, What did Henry spill before we knocked him off? He was on the phone with someone. Did you hear any of his conversation?"

"No, Boss, not really," Rocco admitted, sheepish. He gulped as Baby Face aimed the gun at him in a threatening way. "Well," he quickly added, "I did hear him saying something about not threatening someone, and then he said that if you mess with the Mob, you're gonna get burned. That's when I came in. We argued and I shot him. And when I looked around here, I found most of the stuff that he'd run off with—except one of the jewelry boxes."

Baby Face growled. "You should've kept him alive so that we could've questioned him."

"Sorry, Boss. We were fighting and the gun went off." Rocco stopped by the window again. It sounded as though someone was out there—or a lot of someones. There was shouting nearby, which only made him more nervous. It made Baby Face irritated, on the other hand, and that made Rocco even more nervous. At least Mr. Fuselli had been more even-tempered. "Maybe he knows where Linda ran off to," he suggested.

"I think he did," Baby Face retorted. "I think the whole thing must've been a plan they crafted to try to get away for good."

"Do you think Linda would go back to . . . _them?_" Rocco asked, hesitant. With Baby Face in his current state, Rocco was not certain what sort of things would make him furious—but he did know that Baby Face did not like to speak of Tony and the others, unless it was to make plans to get rid of them.

"It's possible." Baby Face pushed the glass away from him now and Rocco hoped that meant that he was not planning to consume any more whiskey. "She and Vince always seemed to get along alright. Tony never liked her, though. I didn't, either." He slammed his hand down on the table as the shouting grew louder. "What's going on out there—a lynching?"

Rocco cautiously peered outside. "It looks like everyone's chasing four guys," he reported.

"Four guys?" Baby Face repeated in incredulity, getting up to see for himself.

Before he could, however, the front door was thrown open as the panicked Monkees came dashing in to escape their pursuers. Micky, who entered last and remained unseen as he was concealed by the other three, quickly closed and locked the door behind him and started looking for furniture to push against it. Baby Face and Rocco stared in amazement, too appalled to do anything at the moment.

"Do you think it's over, Mike?" Davy asked, breathing heavily and leaning against the wall. During the course of the chase, other enemies had joined in—including The Big Woman and her henchmen George and Lenny, Major Pshaw, and Black Bart. The initial problems with just one mobster and his gang almost seemed like a relief at this point.

"I don't know," Mike gasped. "I guess we can only hope."

"Well, we have one thing to be grateful for," Peter decided.

"What's that?" Micky asked, looking over at him.

"I don't think they'll dare try to follow us here," the blond Monkee smiled.

Mike frowned in confusion. "Why's that?"

"Because of all the men outside with machine guns," Peter answered cheerfully.

Instantly everyone in the room, Monkee and gangster alike, was staring at Peter. "Machine guns?" they echoed.

"Is it the Syndicate?" Baby Face demanded to know, despite not knowing that the Monkees had ever tangled with the Syndicate before.

Peter blinked, noticing his presence for the first time. "No, I don't think so," he replied. "It looked more like Tony and his men." Then he fully realized who he was speaking to. "Hey!" he burst out. "You're the one who hurt Micky!"

Baby Face regarded him with annoyance. "I'll do it again, too," he answered, to which Micky yelled,

"You do and I'll be sorry!"

Baby Face ignored the remark. "There's bigger things to worry about now." He clutched his gun and cursed. "How did Tony find out about this place? We got it after he double-crossed me." But then the answer dawned on him and he cursed again. It must have been Linda, just as he and Rocco had suspected. "So much for getting out of the Mob," he muttered in reference to her.

"You're getting out, Boss?" Rocco exclaimed in disbelief, and earned a slap.

That was when the window was shot out. Immediately everyone ducked or ran for cover as glass and bullets flew about. But before they could do much about the onslaught, Tony was climbing in through the gaping hole. He was holding his Tommy gun threateningly, and once he was inside, Vince leaned in as well, pointing his gun at the group. The quiet gang member followed suit.

"Don't anybody move," Tony ordered, looking from the Monkees to Baby Face. Though he was at first surprised to see the musicians there, he decided not to dwell on it. After all, they were of no consequence to him. And as long as Micky was not dressed the same as Baby Face, Tony would not be getting them mixed up again.

"Look, what's this all about?" Davy exclaimed, having raised his hands in the air out of habit.

"I thought you guys worked together," Peter added with a frown.

"That's all over and done with," Tony snapped. He looked to his former confederate. "This time, Baby Face, you really are going to die."

Baby Face glared coldly at him, his gun aimed at Tony's heart. "You can't stay loyal to anyone for long, can you, Tony?" he said in a frosty tone, obviously growing more and more incensed. Even though he knew the full truth behind Tony's actions in Detroit, that did not stop him from simply lashing out in anger at this point. "You weren't dependable with the police department and you weren't with me, either. As soon as I was out of the picture, you started plotting to take over. You dirty, rotten, sneaky . . ."

"Well, we'll just make our exit," Micky interrupted, grinning weakly as he inched toward the door.

"What about the mob outside?" Davy pointed out.

"What about the mob _inside?_" Micky retorted. Both Baby Face and Tony ignored him and the others as they continued to glare at each other and argue loudly.

Rocco looked over at the Monkees. "There's gonna be a shootout, so if you guys don't wanna be in it, you'd better leave," he said as he got his own gun ready. He, frankly, wished that he could leave as well. He did not want to become involved in another gang war. He might not be as lucky as he had been the last time. But he knew his place was with his boss, and that if he tried to leave he would most certainly be killed later.

"Oh, don't worry!" Davy declared. "We're leaving!" Nevermind the thought that Baby Face's gang was not as much of a problem as their other enemies outside. At least the others were not preparing to open fire. Monkees are notoriously opposed to being caught in gang wars, after all.

But just as the Monkees were preparing to run out, half a dozen more gangsters barged into the cabin, their advancement forcing the quartet to back up.

"The Syndicate is here," growled the one in the lead.

The Monkees looked at each other in horror. "The Syndicate?" they all cried with one voice.

Baby Face glanced briefly at them, but then looked back to Tony. "What kept you?" he snapped at the Syndicate members. "You're late."

"We got lost," a short one answered in a smart-aleck way, then smirked. "No, actually, we wanted to make you squirm."

Tony frowned darkly. "What did you call the Syndicate here for?" he demanded of Baby Face.

The mobster smirked at him. "I don't think it's any of your business," he replied in a smooth tone. "We're not associates any more." He glanced at the Syndicate members again. "But if you have to know, I called them here for some negotiations."

"And we're here to negotiate too," responded the leader as he drew out a machine gun. "Aggressively."

Panicking, the Monkees darted behind the couch.

"You can't do that!" Rocco exclaimed, recalling what Baby Face had told him before this insanity had started. "You'll never find the papers!"

Tony was now confused. "What papers?" he asked, glaring suspiciously at Rocco. It did not seem likely that they could be discussing the same papers that he had wanted to get, but he had to wonder what they were referring to if not that.

Rocco was about to reply when Baby Face gave him a murderous look. "Don't tell him anything!" the mobster ordered.

The Syndicate mob leader looked from Baby Face to Tony, never lowering his own gun. "It looks to me like we've interrupted something," he remarked. "Not that we care, of course." He nodded to his cohorts. "Let's get 'em."

For the next several minutes, the Monkees cringed and stayed hidden as bullets rang out from every direction. Lamps shattered. Couches and chairs were pierced. Plaster rained down from the ceiling and out of the walls. And the musicians prayed fervently that none of the bullets would reach them.

"You know, maybe coming here wasn't such a good idea," Davy exclaimed.

"Oh, I don't know about that. What gave you that idea?" Mike answered sardonically.

"Can't mature individuals resolve their differences peaceably?" Micky cried in frustration. He had already discovered how futile it was to try to stop gangsters from gunning each other down if they felt it necessary. This time he was not even going to attempt it.

Peter glared at the floor. "There's been enough violence already," he complained, afraid that his friends were going to get hurt. And actually, he did not really want to see anyone die, including the mobsters. He wanted everyone to make it out alive, but judging from the screams echoing around them, some of the shooters were not so lucky.

"It's probably only going to get worse, Pete," Micky told him, ducking down even further as a bullet whistled dangerously close. Then he blinked in surprise as his action of leaning forward caused a floor panel to flip one hundred and eighty degrees and reveal an opening.

"Gosharooney!" he declared, looking into the hole and pulling out what seemed to be a jewelry case. When he lifted the lid, the sight of countless gems, rings, and pearls met his eyes.

"What's that?" Davy asked as he looked over.

"It must be some stuff that Baby Face stole," Micky decided. "But what's it doing here?" He frowned in confusion.

"This place is probably one of his hangouts," Mike replied. "Or maybe the guy who called you took this stuff and had it hid here." Idly he lifted out a string of pearls and examined it before setting it back in the box. "In any case, maybe you ought to hang onto it and we'll give it to the police."

"If they get here before everyone's dead," Micky muttered. What on earth was taking them so long?

It was nearly another ten minutes before the shooting ceased. Even after it had seemed to stop, the Monkees remained in their hiding place for several more minutes before daring to venture out. Peter was sorry that they did.

Dead and wounded gangsters were everywhere—on the floor, on the furniture, slumped against the wall. Most of them the Monkees did not know. Baby Face seemed to have come through alright, though he was rubbing at his previously injured shoulder and still looked quite vexed. Rocco was standing next to him, looking as though he was not quite certain what to do now. Tony was lying on the floor, either unconscious or dead, and Vince was tending to the wounds that his friend had sustained.

And then, in the middle of all the commotion, the door flew open again and Linda entered. She gasped, staring at the scene before her with wide eyes.

Where were The Monkees? Had they been hurt or killed during the battle? No, they were safe and sound—and eyeing her in bewilderment. Relief entered her heart.

But she could not help feeling a certain sense of horror and guilt as she gazed at all the people who had been hurt or killed. A lot of this would not have happened if she had not agreed to take Tony and the others to the cabin. And even though these people were by no means innocent, Linda was finding that she could not bear the knowledge that she had helped to bring about many of their injuries. Shaking her head, she sank to her knees in shock.

"Hey Linda!" Micky gasped. "What's going on? Why are you here?"

"This is my fault," Linda whispered, tears filling her eyes. It had not been supposed to be this way! Everything had gone wrong. Baby Face was still alive, and did not even seem to be wounded from this battle. So many others were injured—some fatally—and Linda was kneeling in front of the entire disastrous scene. The pit that she had fallen into was getting all the more deep and she could no longer see any speck of light at the top. It was horrendously overwhelming!

"Your fault?" Davy repeated in disbelief. "How could it be your fault?" He frowned. "I know you helped to get Micky banged up, but I don't see how you could have had anything to do with this!"

"I did!" Linda screamed, looking up at him with haunted eyes. "I did!" Then she looked down, gripping tightly at the knees of her skirt. "There's no running away from the Mob."

"You're right," Baby Face said coldly as he looked at her. "There isn't."

With that he gazed around the room and then noticed Micky, who was still holding the valise of jewelry. Immediately the mobster's eyes flashed with fury. "Where did you find that?" he demanded.

Micky swallowed hard. "Oh, this old thing?" he said, looking down at it and then back up at Baby Face. "Well, I, uh, just happened to find it lying around and I figured it belonged to somebody, so I picked it up." He gave one of his trademark smiles, though he felt extremely nervous.

Baby Face started to walk over to him. "You're right," he said, "it does belong to someone—me! Now hand it over."

Micky turned and fled, throwing the box to Mike before he did. Mike then passed it to Davy and Davy shoved it at Peter. Things went along in this way for several minutes, with Baby Face only growing more infuriated as the game of catch proceeded. He would just lunge at one Monkee to get the box when it would be passed on to someone else. But eventually he tackled Micky near the big picture window and they fell to struggling, even though the jewelry box had just been passed on to Peter. Baby Face was seeing red, and he was taking out his anger on the hapless Monkee.

Micky gasped, trying to force the gangster away from him. First Baby Face would have his hands around Micky's throat, and then Micky would kick or punch or desperately wrestle to get free. He would succeed, but the mobster would only come at him even more vicious than before. And before either of them realized what was happening, they were breaking the glass of the window and falling out—right onto a thin ledge that was just above the waterfall.

The other Monkees gasped in terror. "Micky!" they cried, running outside onto another ledge that was above the one their friend was fighting on. This was an alarming turn of events. Micky could not fight on such a small space for very long. And it was all too likely that both he and Baby Face could end up going over the falls.

"This is horrible!" Peter declared, grabbing Mike's arm in panic. "We shouldn't have come! We haven't been able to do anything to help, and now this!" He gripped tighter. "Maybe we should have just let Baby Face have the jewels! Then he wouldn't have gotten so mad like this!"

Mike shook his head, not able to think of a suitable reply.

The two enemies were locked in mortal combat on the cliff. Baby Face wrestled with Micky, trying to throw him over the edge, and Micky simply struggled to not fall. The sound of the waterfall underneath him made him grow all the more nervous as he tried to shove Baby Face against the wall of the next cliff up.

"Come on!" he gasped. "Hasn't this gone far enough?"

Baby Face sneered. "It's not over till you're dead!" he retorted, blinded by his anger and frustration over everything that had gone wrong. The Syndicate had attacked, Tony and his mob had attacked, the Monkees had wandered into the picture again. . . .

And even knowing that Tony was probably dead now did not give Baby Face a sense of fulfillment or satisfaction, as he had thought it would. It had actually been one of the Syndicate members that had shot Tony in the melee, but that made little difference. Baby Face had wanted to kill him—or he had thought he did, anyway. It was actually a pity that Tony had decided to turn against him. Tony was one of the most intelligent people that Baby Face had worked with, and the mobster was quite annoyed at the loss. He was just realizing now how much.

Their battle continued, with no way for the other Monkees to get to them. First one neared the edge, then the other. It happened so fast that none of them quite realized what had occurred until Baby Face toppled over the side and barely managed to grab onto the edge before he would have fallen to an almost certain death.

Micky blinked, then swallowed hard as he looked into Baby Face's hate-filled eyes. He could not deny that part of him wanted to simply leave him there and to not deal with him anymore, but he was not the same kind of person as Baby Face. He could not abandon Baby Face now and feel good about it. Forcing himself to bend over, he shakily reached and took hold of the gangster's wrist.

"I'll pull you up," he offered, grimacing as he did and knowing that Baby Face would not be grateful. But he was not expecting what happened next.

Baby Face looked up at him with an expression that was a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "I should've figured you'd be that kind of idiot," he remarked. "The smart thing to do would be to walk away." He held tighter to the rock, concentrating on staying alive. If Micky did indeed help him back onto the cliff, then Baby Face would only go right back to trying to push him over the edge.

At least, that had been the thought that had flashed through his mind a moment earlier. Perhaps the logical thing for him to do would also be to walk away. Micky—and everyone else—had interrupted a caper. Maybe he should go back to trying to pull it off instead of trying to kill Micky in a situation that was potentially fatal for him as well. As much as Micky angered him, Baby Face did not hate him so much that he was willing to die himself in order to kill him.

Micky grinned weakly. "Yeah, well, I guess I didn't learn my lesson." He strained hard, trying to hoist his double up onto the level ground. Even as he did so, he could feel the ground starting to crumble under them both. The ledge was simply too old and too weather-worn to stand the pressure that was all of a sudden being put upon it.

Micky gave a yelp of shock as they both tumbled over the side and the water rushed up to meet them. Then it was sweeping over him, rushing into his nose, his mouth, his eyes. He gasped for breath, losing track of Baby Face in the commotion and trying to keep hold of the vine he had somehow snatched during the fall. It was all he could do to hold on and to not be completely caught over the falls. Even so, he doubted that his grip would last much longer.

xxxx

On the top of the tallest cliff, Mike, Davy, and Peter watched in helpless horror. "Micky!" they exclaimed with one voice.

Peter continued to grip Mike's arm in panic. "Michael, we have to do something!" he cried in desperation. "He's going to die!"

Mike shook his head. A sick feeling was coming over him. "They . . . they already hit the water," he replied quietly. "It's going so fast. . . . I don't think he made it, Peter." He looked over the side of the cliff again, gazing into the rushing aqueous depths as he searched for any sign of their friend, but there was none. Micky and Baby Face were both gone.

Peter shook his head adamantly, refusing to listen. "No. No, that's not true!" he cried. "Micky's alright. He . . . he has to be. . . . He couldn't not be alright . . . not after everything else that's happened. . . ."

He stared into the water as well, but soon had to stop and look away. The waves dashed and crashed over the rocks that were both at the top and at the bottom of the falls, and other than some faint red streaks there were not any indications that humans had been there only moments before. Peter had to accept that Micky was likely dead, but he could not bear to.

Davy bit his lip, laying his hand on Peter's shoulder. "What was he thinking?" he said softly.

"He probably would've been alright if he hadn't tried to pull up Baby Face," Mike muttered, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Why'd he do it?"

In spite of his words, he did not actually believe that he would have simply left Baby Face either. It was not in any of their natures to walk away from someone in obvious trouble, if they could help—even if that someone was a criminal.

Peter felt the tears coming to his eyes and he did not even try to control them. "Micky!" he yelled in vain, standing at the cliff's edge with his eyes closed. He was afraid to look at the water again. What if he saw Micky's body? It had been so nightmarish before, when he had found Micky lying in a puddle of blood in the Beverly Hills mansion. He did not think he could bear for something similar to happen now.

Mike waited for another agonizing, long moment, wishing in vain for some kind of response, and then put a gentle arm around Peter's shoulders. "He was a good friend," he said quietly.

Davy nodded. "He always tried to keep things cheerful for us." He could name countless times when he or one of the others had felt depressed and Micky had tried to cheer them up. Micky was the one who had tried to create laughter when no one felt like laughing. And even though it usually did not work on one such as Mike, who was usually stoic, Davy could think of a lot of times when he himself had felt better after Micky's kidding.

Mike sighed. "Heck, I wouldn't even mind hearing one of his impressions now. . . ." Just to know that he was safe. Mike was certain that Micky was lost to them this time. Perhaps he had simply been destined to die, the Texan thought cynically. But that did not make it any easier to bear.

None of them realized it, but Micky had struggled to climb back up the vine and now was standing behind them, exhausted and ragged. "Hey, guys," he gasped when he had finally caught his breath, "I'm right here!"

Peter sniffled. "I can almost hear him. . . ."

Davy's eyes widened. "I heard him too!" he cried, whirling around and finding himself looking at the formerly missing drummer. "Micky, you're alive!" he said in disbelief as he ran over to their friend.

Immediately Mike and Peter turned around as well. Peter brightened and ran to embrace Micky, while Mike stared in confusion. "How did you get back up here?" he demanded. "We thought you'd gotten killed!"

Micky coughed, brushing several damp locks of hair out of his eyes. "I almost did!" he retorted. "I'm only safe because I was able to hold onto a vine." He returned Peter's hug, smiling a bit before sobering. "I don't know what happened to Baby Face."

Mike shook his head. "I don't see how he could've survived too. He probably didn't have a vine to grab." And it would not really bother him much if the mobster had perished. He had caused them enough trouble for several lifetimes.

"Yeah. . . ." Micky frowned a bit. "But I guess he could've found something. I don't think he'd go down easily."

Davy looked at him curiously. "Do you think he would've actually let you help him?" he asked.

Micky shrugged. "I dunno. It's hard to say, with him." All he knew was that Baby Face had acted as though he would allow it. That surprised Micky, but he supposed that if Baby Face's desire to live had outshadowed his desire for revenge, then he would have indeed gone along with it.


	11. Epilogue

**Notes: I****'m happy to have finally been able to share this story on this website. I have some others I will proceed to post as well. Meanwhile, I also have a story in the Monkees Crossovers section. Thank you to everyone who has shown interest!**

It was not long before the police had organized a search team to look for Baby Face or his remains. But though the effort went on for hours, nothing more than his hat was ever located. The police, the Monkees, Baby Face's mob, and Tony's gang were all left to assume that Baby Face had indeed perished in the waterfall.

Tony's fate was unknown, as were his whereabouts. Though everyone searched, he, Vince, and their quiet friend had all vanished. Linda could not be located either.

As Micky and the others were heading back to the Monkeemobile, Micky caught sight of a familiar blonde girl standing apart from everyone else, staring forlornly over the edge of the cliff.

"Ruby," he whispered in realization. She had returned at the wrong time, after the police had arrived, and was visibly shaken at the news of Baby Face having fallen off the ledge. Micky bit his lip, hesitating for a moment, and then slowly went over to her.

"Hey, uh, I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, and meant it.

Ruby started and looked up at him. For a split-second, hope was in her eyes. But she quickly recognized that this was Micky and not the man she loved.

"I knew this would happen someday," she said softly. She was not being charged with any crimes, as the extent of her involvement with Baby Face was not known, but the police did want to take her in for questioning. She dreaded it, as she did not want to say anything that could further incriminate Baby Face—just in case there was a chance that he would still turn up alive.

Micky shifted, not sure what to say to her. "I did try to save him," he admitted finally.

"I know," Ruby answered, and her gaze turned to one filled with confusion and curiosity. "Why did you? It would've been better for you if he'd just fallen. You almost got killed yourself because you tried to help him."

Micky shrugged helplessly. "It . . . it was the right thing to do," he said at last.

Ruby nodded slowly and did not say more. After a moment one of the officers came and began leading her to the nearest squad car. She went peaceably, but with a heavy heart. She did not want to lie, but she would if she had to. Silently she slid into the backseat, her thoughts whirling.

Surely Baby Face was alive somewhere, and perhaps someday he would turn up when she least expected it. She had to comfort herself with this thought or she did not think she could bear it.

Micky watched her go. A soft, sad sigh escaped his lips. In some ways, he supposed, she was like Linda. Ruby had also gotten into a mess that she could not easily get out of. The difference was that Ruby did not seem to want to try. She genuinely loved Baby Face and it did not seem as though that would change. _It's too bad,_ Micky thought, _that Baby Face can't just realize what a good thing he already has and get out of the crime business to be with her._

Mike sighed as well, and laid a hand on Micky's shoulder. "Let's go," he said quietly. "There's no reason for us to hang around."

Micky gave a nod of agreement, and he and the others left.

xxxx

Still, even when Micky read the news of Baby Face's demise in the paper the following day, he found that he still had his doubts—quite a few of them. He could not shake the feeling that he had not heard the last from his double, but of course he did not have any proof other that that. And he was not at all sure that he could consider a feeling to be solid proof.

With a sigh he set the newspaper back on the table and leaned into the soft couch. "Boy, that was some wild experience, I'm telling you," he remarked, looking up at the ceiling but speaking to his friends.

Peter nodded. "I sure hope we don't have trouble like that again," he said with a shudder as he poured himself a bowl of Corn Flakes. "Maybe from now on we should just leave things like that up to the police."

"Well, we really couldn't help but get involved, Peter," Davy replied. "After Henry and Linda took Micky, how could we just sit home and twiddle our thumbs?"

"I know, but we didn't have to do anything else after Micky was found." Peter looked around at the others, his brown eyes serious and filled with concern. "We took a lot of chances, especially by going up to that cabin." He sighed softly. "I don't think we really did any good by going there, anyway. All we did was find a box of jewels. And poor Micky almost got killed in that fight with Baby Face because of them."

Mike shook his head, frowning down at the piece of toast he was buttering. "I wonder what happened to him," he muttered. "And Linda, too. She kept babbling that the gang war was her fault."

"No kidding." Micky leaned on the couch arm. "I wonder what that was all about, anyway. I don't get how she could have made much of a difference there. They would've all started fighting whether she did anything about it or not."

And perhaps the same could be said for her part in what had happened to Micky. He remembered that she had pleaded with Henry at the manor and that she had insisted that she did not want to kill Micky. And she had chased her husband around the mansion, trying to get him to stop. Yet it still seemed that she had not done everything that she could have, as Mike had pointed out to her before. She could have called the police and told them what was going on, but she had not. Most likely she had not wanted to get Henry into trouble, even though she had known that what he was doing was wrong.

"Well," Davy said after a short silence, "I hope she's alright, wherever she's gone." He paused again. "The police said that they found Henry's body in the woods."

The others looked at him in shock. "How'd that happen?" Mike wondered. "I thought he was working with Baby Face's mob."

Davy shrugged helplessly. "They thought that maybe he was trying to get out of the business and the mob wouldn't let him go," he answered. "I'd like to think that, rather than thinking that he wanted to stay with them. After all, he and Linda did say that they were planning to run away from everything."

Peter sighed. "Hey, I wonder if he was the guy who called you, Micky," he mused.

Micky blinked. "Him? That's ridiculous! I would've recognized him!" But he frowned. Was it possible? Henry could have been disguising his voice. And even though he had said that he did not work for any mob, he could have been saying that to throw Micky off the track. At any rate, Micky should not forget about the possibility. Actually, it would make him happy to know that it was Henry. That would indicate that he had been trying to do the right thing in the end.

Mike looked over at him. "I hope all that excitement yesterday hasn't put too much of a strain on your wounds, Micky," he said in all seriousness. He, Davy, and Peter had been worrying about that since they had returned home the previous night, but of course Micky had said that he was fine. They had all noticed, however, that he seemed very tired and worn out, and that he did not seem to want to do much of anything that would require him to move.

"Me? Pshaw, I've never been better," Micky answered typically with a smile. "The next time we've got a gig, I'll be able to come with you guys and play the drums." He leaned back into the soft couch. He was eager for things to start going back to normal, especially after how hectic their lives had been for the past few weeks. The most excitement he wanted to see was ecstatic teenage girls dancing to their music.

"I hope so," Peter smiled back. Now he glanced over the newspaper. "Hey, it says that the police are sure that Baby Face is dead," he announced.

"Yeah, I know," Micky sighed. "I really think they're jumping the gun. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet."

"Well," Mike mused, "if he hit those rocks, then there's probably not much hope for him. I kinda don't think he'll be bothering us anymore."

Micky rubbed his eyes. "You're forgetting how sneaky he is," he retorted.

"Yeah," Peter nodded, "sneaky and vicious."

"Sneaky and vicious can't keep someone alive in every situation, Peter," Davy pointed out.

"His crimes would have to catch up with him sooner or later," Mike agreed.

"Well," Micky answered, now coming over to the table, "I guess we'll just have to wait and see." He grabbed for a piece of toast. "Hey, do we have a gig tonight?" he asked.

Mike shook his head. "Not tonight. There's one set for Friday."

"Oh good." Micky smiled. "That'll give me a few days to practice."

He settled back. It was not that he wanted Baby Face to be dead, but he had to admit that he would be relieved if the crime lord would not be around to cause more trouble for them. That was the last thing any of them needed right now. Maybe with any luck, they would be able to go back to their normal lives.

"You know," Peter said suddenly, "I wonder what happened to that guy Tony."

"You mean if he's alive?" Mike asked.

"Well, that too," Peter admitted, "but what I'd really like to know is, How did he meet up with someone like Baby Face anyway? He was a police officer in Detroit, but he started doing bad things before he even quit the force. How does something like that happen?" It made him feel quite sad, actually. He did not understand, if Tony had originally set out to uphold the law, how he had suddenly got turned around and joined the very forces he had been fighting against. Part of him wondered if Tony's situation had been similar in some way to Linda's, at least in the beginning. Perhaps Tony had started dabbling in certain criminal activities and then had been completely pulled into the trap without even quite realizing it until he was in too deep.

"Who knows," Mike said with a shrug. "Maybe he was always a crooked cop. Maybe he joined to please his dad or something, but he never really believed in it."

"Or maybe he just got mixed with the wrong crowd," Micky suggested.

Davy nodded. "Don't think about it too much, Peter," he advised.

Micky nodded as well, in agreement. "After all, we'll probably never know the truth."

Peter nodded slowly. "You're probably right." But he still wondered. He had the feeling that they had not heard the last from Tony and his friends, either. Sooner or later, they and Baby Face would probably all be back.


End file.
